


Happy Pills

by malf0y101



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Addiction, Adrian is the light of my life, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Dark Mark, Death, Death Eaters, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Drug Overdose Attempt, Drugs, F/M, Hermione is a baddie, M/M, MYSTERY SHIP FOR ADRIAN, PostWar, Protective Draco, Self-Harm, Slow Burn, Slytherin, Suicide Attempt, Tattoo Draco Malfoy, Trauma, Violence, all the Slytherins got dark marks, dramione - Freeform, drug overdose, posthogwarts, the rents are out of Azkaban
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:35:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 24
Words: 155,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27697723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/malf0y101/pseuds/malf0y101
Summary: A few years after the Second Wizarding War, a group of Slytherins is drafted into a rehabilitation program created by the Ministry of Magic and one of its determined interns--one of their former classmates and the familiar Golden Girl of Gryffindor. As their marks continue to cause physical and mental pain, the Slytherins undergo intense treatment in order to relearn everything about the Wizarding World and tackle the trauma of their Dark Marks.And although they are apprehensive, they are also desperate for someone to simply care about them.
Relationships: Blaise Zabini and Daphne Greengrass, Blaise Zabini/Daphne Greengrass, Hermione Granger & Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Theodore Nott and Pansy Parkinson, Theodore Nott/Pansy Parkinson
Comments: 355
Kudos: 1351
Collections: Draco Malfoy Books, Escapism





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there is a graphic depiction of self-harm in this scene. I have marked the section off with asterisks if you need to skip the description. a reminder that you are all loved and important and valued <3

**TW: self-harm, suicide, drug use; viewer discretion is STRONGLY advised.**

Graham Montague glares at the shadowy, black serpent and skull etched into his left forearm. The mammoth design is impossible to ignore; even though it has faded slightly, it still stings like a bitch, and it feels like his whole limb is submerged in scalding hot water. No amounts of drugs or alcohol can numb the overwhelming pain bursting from his arm to the rest of his body. It coils around his veins, infiltrates his muscles, and melts his bones with ease. 

And he can't fucking take it anymore. 

The mark has been tormenting him for days and keeping him wide-awake at night; when he does find time to sleep, his dreams are corrupted by the evil remnants of the mark still floating around in his body, mixed with the plasma and oxygen that filters through his system. No matter how morally good he tries to be, he cannot escape his past. Voldemort lives with him—upon him—forever. 

He is a prisoner to the mark. 

And even though Voldemort was killed three years ago, Graham can still feel the consequences of the mark in every little thing he does—when he talks to people, when he eats, when he listens to his vinyl, when he practices petty magic, when he sleeps, when he makes love. It plagues every facet of his life. 

Demons. They claw around his intestines, hang like monkeys upon his veins, and fold his spirit into itself, suctioned like dust in front of a vacuum down into the dark abyss centered in the pit of his stomach. They swallow his eyes from the inside, seize and confiscate his ability to smell and taste, and utterly destroy every possible inch of his being. The demons stem from the mark, constantly titillating upon his pale arm. He sees it through his blurry vision. He can feel it dance with pleasure. It is relentless. 

He grips the sides of the porcelain sink in his bathroom, lowering his head into the basin and screaming into the rusted drain. Tired. That's what he is. Fucking exhausted by this tattoo. Haunted by his past actions—actions that do not characterize who he is now, or rather who he is trying to be. His piercing cry echoes throughout the small room, bouncing off of the evergreen tiled walls and continuously ringing in his ears. 

He is alone, except for a small, external presence which looms in the atmosphere around him. A fire surrounds him, smothers his vision, and steams the contents of his body. A burning, blazing force which, like the mark, is inescapable. So long as the mark remains stitched into his body, the fire will persist. 

And there is also a voice that will not stop pestering his brain. It speaks to him, unremorsefully. 

_Do it._

Graham pants heavily, his eyes bulging out of their sockets. Sweat pours from his temples, fusing with the tears flowing from his inflamed, swollen irises. He blinks and shifts his groggy eyesight to the translucent white powder lined atop the left side of the bathroom counter. 

_Go on. It'll feel fucking fantastic._

Obeying the voice as if he has no other option, Graham wastes no time bending over and forcing his left nostril shut with his quivering index finger. He lines the snow below his right nostril, takes a deep breath, grits his teeth, and inhales the substance, shifting his head several inches forward to subsume as many grains as possible, mind the poor and rushed form of the snort. 

It shoots up his nose and sends its tantalizing message straight to Graham's system. 

He rises abruptly, pinching the bridge of his nose and scrunching his eyes shut as he attempts to tolerate the harsh upshoot of the substance. It rushes to his brain, into his blood stream—every inch of his fragile, traumatized body feels the powder crawl among it, like frantic ants rushing to a delectable food source. He emits a sullen groan, allowing his body to surrender itself to the drug. It holds him captive. He loosens the tension in his shoulders and feels his body soar into euphoria.

The sweet sensation of cocaine colonizes him. 

He huffs in and out, already feeling the jaded effects of the drug. It's fast-working, as if it was already in his system. As if it belongs to no other person but him. 

Situated in the left corner of the sink is an almost empty bottle of fire whiskey; its spout glistens, tempting Graham to demolish the contents of the bottle with his throbbing tongue and eager throat. He grabs it and chugs the remnants, the cool snow and the cinnamon liquor infusing within his system. The elements work together, breeding an unsteady heart rate and a pulsating head rush. 

In mere seconds, the bottle is empty. Graham grips the 12 oz. jug in his shaking hand, staring at it with red eyes, wishing there could be more. He could use his magic to conjure up an additional bottle, but what good would it do? It would be a waste of perfectly good fire whiskey. And he would no doubt feel just as fucking terrible after consuming another bottle as he did now. So, there was simply no point. 

No point to anything. 

The forces within him collide into one another, battling over which one holds the most control over him. He has lost any sense of autonomy over his body. The cocaine, the alcohol, and the Dark Mark dance in a tango upon his organs, stamping their powers on every inch of his insides. A pressure unlike any other builds up within him; the substances are the constructors, and the effects of the substances are the buildings. And the constructors are erecting edifices at triple the speed, vying for power and control within his body. 

He's lost authority. 

He doesn't care. 

In an instant, Graham hurls the vacant bottle against the wall to his right. It shatters on impact, the glass combusting and dispersing into the empty white tub that is lodged into the bottom of the wall. Panting heavily, he stares at the shards of glass disseminated in the tub, wondering what it would be like to soak in those fragmented pieces and liberate his blood. 

No more wondering. He wants to feel it. 

His heart racing and his veins pumping with adrenaline, Graham turns back and punches the mirror above the sink with all the force he has. He pounds his fist into the glass once, twice, three times, until the skin on his hand is covered in his crimson blood; any remnant of his pale skin is masked now by the trickling plasma. Shards of the mirror are lodged into his knuckles, and others have fallen into the sink. One large, sharp piece has wedged itself in the drain. 

Graham stares at it, intrigue dancing upon his brown irises. 

_It would be so easy to do it with that piece._

The voice in his head is strong. Stronger than he is. 

_Go on. You know you want to._

Graham wants to. He wants it to be over.

He yanks the fragment out of its spot in the drain and hovers it above the mark on his arm, the mark that is dancing with keenness and enthrallment. It's like the mark wants this to happen. It wants Graham to drive himself over the edge, do whatever necessary in order to unshackle himself from it. The mark is cunning and dangerous; he determines it to be the most potent force working within his body. The alcohol and the drugs are secondary. The mark is leading him to do this. 

**

Slowly, in order to savor the pain, he presses the corner of the glass into his arm, sweeping the glass horizontally right over the mouth of the skull. He cries out at the sharp pain, inspecting his scarlet blood as it seeps out of his skin and drips down his arm towards his wrist, tinged with his throbbing blue and purple veins. The discomfort only lasts for a moment. When the stinging decreases, Graham has the urge to feel more.

"Fucking hell," he murmurs, lifting the discolored glass and shaving it again into his forearm, this time right in the center of the snake's body. He relishes in the split second of pain, but as quickly as it comes, it vanishes. 

**

He craves more. 

His eyes wander to the bathtub.

_Go on, Graham. It's so simple._

Graham is resolute. He marches to the tub, his arms dripping with blood, leaving small droplets of himself on the tiled floor, forever staining the bathroom as the place he once lived. This was his bathroom now, forever. No amount of scrubbing, bleach, or even magic would remove him from this spot. His ghost would live here and haunt anyone who stepped foot in this place, reminding them to always make the right choice. 

To not end up like him—hopeless and lost, without any purpose to live. 

His slender fingers trail the metal knob of the tub; again, he leaves his trace on another part of the bathroom. With a twist of the handle, he turns the water on, letting it dispense into the basin. The water collects the shards of the bottle and lifts them onto its surface; they float like feathers, and Graham suddenly feels like he too is floating. Like the world he will be lifted into is one of peace and quiet. Free of the mark. 

Still fully clothed, save any socks or shoes, Graham steps into the bath and submerges himself in the water. He grips the same piece of glass in his hand, sinking it into his palm to draw even more blood. But there is no pain anymore. There is simply numbness, nothingness. 

He lowers himself into the ice-cold water, his heartbeat reaching a dangerously high pace. The glacial water and the circulating cocaine draw his eyes to shoot open with alertness; he moans ecstatically. 

Graham does what he feels he needs to do. He sees no other way to flee the constant pain, the constant reminder of his choices. 

Drip, drip, drip. Slowly but surely, his blood seeps into the water and colors it a rusty orange at first. In time, as more blood trickles out of him, the water becomes darker and redder. And as he sits in the tub, resting his shaking back on the edge, he cries out. 

But no one hears him. No one ever hears him. 

No one ever hears the others, either. 

But they cry out too, the same agony as Graham harbored in their own lungs and minds. 

And with his last agonizingly painful breath, Graham curses Voldemort's name.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> see note at the end.

**TW: drug use**

The thing about Amortentia is that it is not just a potion one learns how to brew in their sixth year at Hogwarts. It is an experience. A visceral, tangible, physically stimulating experience.

It is located on the outskirts of Hogsmeade, past all the quaint and ordinary shops where families, adults, and elderly witches and wizards roam on Saturday afternoons. Shoved into a secluded, forbidden, unspeakable corner of town, Amortentia is privy to copious amounts of illicit activities, which lends the club its unholy label. 

What appears to be an ordinary pub from a quick glance on the street is actually home to a lustful secret. Beneath the grey, wooden floors of the standard British tavern rests a hotbed for pleasure, indulgence, and anesthesiologically induced episodes of hedonism and carnal interplay. 

Amortentia. The name of the speakeasy. And the clandestine goal of the environment. To stir lust and temptation within the bodies of those who are brave enough to set foot in it. 

The walls are adorned with neon light signs, mirrors, and the glued-together bodies of couples pressed against one another in ravenous fits of sexual outbursts. Strobe lights burst their radiant waves into the pool of bodies below, shining aqua, emerald, and crimson lights on the grinding bodies which move frivolously on the dance floor. It reeks of corporeal fluids, but the smell is intoxicating, driving those who inhale it to dance, sweat, and liberate themselves. 

Hot, sweaty figures crowding and knocking into one another, beads of sweat painting the sticky, black floors, remnants of drinks spilling and flying in the air, and muffled yet obvious moans of pleasure and euphoria coming from the restrooms all control the atmosphere of the club. It is hot, murky, and deeply erotic—a breeding ground for those who seek to escape whatever problems they will eventually have to confront. Those tribulations are for tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after that; Amortentia is tonight's escape. 

It's where the infamous group of Slytherin-turned-Death-Eaters spends their evenings, indulging in drugs, booze, sex—anything to get their minds off of the cruel world which they live in. The world that wants nothing to do with them. The world that considers them weak, pathetic, and repulsive. Amoral. A waste of life and magic.

Adrenaline pumps through Draco Malfoy's body as he carefully lines the thrilling white powder on the dark, granite bathroom counter, cautiously avoiding the splotches of water layering the platform. He precisely rations out the portions with his Wizard identification card, licking his lips and salivating at the notion of feeling the powder hit the top of his nostrils and soak into his system, followed by the inevitable rush of both numbness yet absolute intoxication. 

His friends hover over his broad shoulders, pestering him to speed up the process before someone walks in and bears witness to their unsavory deed. 

"Fuck's sake, Zabini, just go lock the fucking door if you're so worried!" Draco shouts, twisting his shoulder to face Blaise and gesturing his intolerant arm towards the bathroom door. Rolling his eyes at Draco's condescending outburst, Blaise marches towards the white bathroom door, decorated with shrewd and obscene images and words, and quickly grasps the metal lock with his slender fingers. He twists, and the small click of the lock resounds against the muffled music outside the bathroom, which seeps through the gap between the door and the floor and pumps through the atmosphere. 

Vibrations pulse through the ground like the club's own heartbeat—or even a tremoring earthquake—electrifying every one of their bodies in tandem with the club's own breathing. 

As Blaise returns, he notches his buff arms around Daphne Greengrass' petite waist, pulling her into his chest and sucking on her neck with mischievous and playful bites. She lets out a giggle, craning her head to the side so that Blaise can continue to press his lips against her tender and inviting skin. The way he feels against her is almost as tantalizing and electric as the impending satiation of the drugs. 

In a state of euphoria brought on by Blaise's sensual touches, Daphne playfully lifts and rotates her leg at the knee, knocking the bottom of her red pumps against Theodore Nott's shoulder, who kneels just below her. 

"Merlin's fucking dick, Daph, watch it!" Theo rasps through a cigarette lodged between his lips. Smoke trickles out of his mouth, and the crisp fire at the butt of the cigarette shines just a little bit brighter than before, its orange embers glowing luminously in the dim bathroom. 

"Oh, calm down, Theo!" Pansy Parkinson exclaims, throwing her arms around Theo's neck and lunging herself into his lap. Her jet-black hair, usually straight and rigid but tonight frizzy and damp with her glowing sweat, sprawls across Theo's legs, and she chuckles in a fit of hysteria brought on by an infusion of alcohol and horniness within her gut. "Let the two have their fun," she slurs, sticking her tongue up at Theo and attempting to catch the floating smoke in her mouth. It dissipates in the air like a ghost, and Pansy pouts. 

"Fucking hell, Parkinson," Theo chuckles. "You are absolutely wasted and completely off your rocker." With a pang of confidence, Pansy lifts her hand and secures Theo's cigarette between her index and middle finger; she tugs it from his mouth and settles it between her lips, dragging the chemicals deep into her system. Theo moans a sensual profanity at the sight of Pansy pulling the nicotine out of his smoke. The sight of her bloodshot irises rolling in the back of her head makes Theo's heart pump with adrenaline and desire. 

Pansy inhales another whiff of the cigarette, then raises her head just inches away from Theo's face. Removing the cigarette from her mouth and gripping it in her hovering hand, she blows smoke into his mouth; he gladly accepts the gesture, and before the mist subsides between their mouths, he smacks his lips against hers with intense libido. 

"Look who's talking, Nott," Blaise snickers from above, still gripping Daphne's waist and swaying her in his arms. 

Draco rolls his eyes at the commotion to his right—Theo and Pansy, Blaise and Daphne, engulfed in one another's arms, glued together by the sheer force of lust and desire. To his left, Adrian Pucey kneels beside him, carefully inspecting the strategic separation of the bleached dust. Draco and Adrian's eyes meet for a split second as they silently judge the horny outbursts of the two pairs. 

"Don't get any ideas, Malfoy," Adrian says jokingly, jabbing the inside of his cheek with his sweltering tongue and raising his bushy eyebrows cockily. 

Draco pops his middle finger up at Adrian, who subsequently gives him a fraternal pat on the shoulder. 

"Seriously though, Malfoy, hurry up. I'm dying to get this shit inside of me," Adrian declares. 

"Don't get your knickers in a twist, Pucey," Draco responds, finally separating the cocaine into six different piles, lined up horizontally at the edge of the counter. He shoves his card into his pocket, his tongue drawing outside of his mouth to wet his keen lips. "Now, stop fucking snogging and get up here," Draco instructs the group in a stern tone. 

Theo pulls away from Pansy, whose lips are swollen and beet red from his incessant sucking. He lifts Pansy to her knees and props her up against the counter next to Draco. Pansy groans at the abrupt removal of Theo's lips, but once her eyes connect with the snow in front of her, she immediately feels a rush of excitement swarm her senses—senses she knows will be overly-heightened in the next few minutes. With the prospect of Theo's hands all over her sensitized body, Pansy's lips curve in a sanguine smile. Theo kneels next to her, Blaise and Daphne flagging to his right side to complete the line. 

Blaise shoves his hand into the pocket of his slacks, removing a wad of muggle banknotes, the image of the queen inked upon the blue and white background. He chaotically distributes it down the line, desperate for the process to begin as soon as possible. Once everyone has their banknotes, they begin to roll them up tightly, preparing to absorb the substance. 

There is a brief pause. An indescribable pause. They each feel it, lodged in their throat. It's the anticipation of the glorious feeling of being high and hyper, yet it's also the communal gut feeling that what they are about to do will only temporarily stop the pain. 

The beat of the music pulses throughout the floor, and the former Slytherins all stare at the drug before them. Waiting. Watching. Preparing themselves. The feeling of euphoria is not foreign to them, especially at this point. Drugs and alcohol have been a steady part of their lives for the past few years. 

It's to cope with the pain and the loneliness. 

But there is a pause nonetheless, everyone staring at their portions of snow with blurry and distorted eyes, living and breathing off of their already heavily inebriated bodies. 

Draco breaks the silence: "What are you all waiting for? Fucking Bellatrix to resurrect herself and shove it up your noses for you? Fucking do it." 

And with that sharp command, the former Slytherins inhale the powder up through the banknotes and into their nostrils, allowing the substance to occupy their bodies and fill them with a rush of energy. 

Daphne coughs for several seconds, desperately trying to withstand the immense pressure building in her head, and Blaise attempts to comfort her with soft strokes to her back while he simultaneously deals with the sudden influx of the external, thrilling powder in his own body. 

Pansy tolerates the drug with ease, and her already bloodshot eyes become even redder. Her blood vessels are like spider webs sprouting from her black pupils. She laughs with pleasure, sucking in the damp air of the bathroom through her teeth and completely relinquishing herself to the atmosphere. 

Beside her, Theo pinches the bridge of his nose tightly and shakes his head violently, letting out a brief cheer of delight; his left hand reaches out and wraps around Pansy's small bicep for support. 

Desperate to continue their previous episode and soothe Theo's discomfort, Pansy places her lips against Theo's neck, sucking and biting his skin, earning his moans and gasps. Their carnal instincts take over; revitalized by her kisses, Theo grips Pansy's waist and lifts her effortlessly, and as she straddles his waist in midair, he stumbles towards the stalls and barges into the large one in the corner. They close the door and the lock clicks. 

Adrian falls back on his behind, lifting his head to the ceiling and relishing in the electric feeling. His fingers curl against the cold floor, and his nails press firmly against the ground as he feels the substance disperse through his system. 

And Draco, even more tolerant of the drug than Pansy, rolls his eyes into the back of his head and emits a heavenly sigh. He feels the rushing influence of the drug course through his body, sailing upon his bloodstream like an explorer on treacherous oceans. A storm brews within him. He feels powerful, in control, and above all dazed. His other senses fade away. Only one remains in his mind: the feeling of lust. 

The grunts and moans of Theo and Pansy in the stall echo throughout the bathroom, and the group of four stands to exit. Daphne tumbles into Blaise's arms, limp and loose under the weight of the cocaine within her petite body. No doubt would it hit her the hardest—it usually did. But Blaise was always there to catch her, guide her steadily around the dance floor, and set her safely in her bed at the conclusion of the night. The next morning, when they were lucid, they would ravenously fuck until they couldn't breathe properly—until it inorganically felt like they were under the influence of the drug yet again. 

The groans from the stall become louder and louder. 

"Merlin, fuck me!" Adrian shouts in exasperation. "Wait until we fucking leave, would you?"

"Well fuck off, then! Nobody is asking you to stay!" Theo shouts from the stall, followed by Pansy's disgruntled laughter, then more popping and sucking sounds. The four make a beeline for the exit, unlocking the door and piling out back into the heart of the club. 

The sudden shift in light is what Draco notices first. The bathroom was dimly lit but still exhibited a tint of white light within it. Now, walking through the epicenter of the club, Draco feels the heat of the multi-colored strobe lights touch and singe his skin. He feels exposed to every radioactive wave of sound and light, able to experience each sensation individually as his senses amplify under the throbbing pressure of the drug. The exhilaration of it all drives him to push through the crowded dance floor with Adrian, Blaise, and Daphne right behind him. 

Draco's eyesight begins to sully. It simultaneously slows down and speeds up, like his eyes are working faster than his brain. He collects the images of grinding bodies and flashing lights in his mind, letting them seep into his brain so that he can replay them over and over again. 

Like the sudden detonation of a bomb, the four friends suddenly feel the coke take over their bodies. It is abrupt but not unfamiliar. Their senses intensify, able to feel and experience every bit of the waves of sounds and light blasting around them. Every atom of matter is tangible to them—even the air titillates their senses. 

They dance, sweat, and scream with pleasure, their voices synthesizing with the anarchic cries of the other clubgoers. Adrian throws his arms around Draco's shoulder, who returns the gesture, and they jump up and down, lively sweat pouring from their temples. Daphne and Blaise, completely enamored with one another, dance and laugh with immeasurable bliss in one another's arms. 

The lights begin to merge together, morphing into a rainbow of flashes which dart across Draco's eyes. His body feels electrified, like he's been stung by bees infused with dopamine. There is heavenly bliss for those moments as he dances with his friends. 

A tap on Draco's shoulder temporarily draws him out of his high. As he turns around, his distorted eyes fall upon a girl, whose tight brown curls and beautiful bronze skin reflect gloriously in the indigo lights. Glitter wreathes the shape of her almond eyes, drawing Draco to her enticing face. 

Out of nowhere, the girl pulls him in and presses her wet lips against his. He gives in immediately, his frivolous hands running up and down her waist and legs, past the short hem of her burgundy dress. They tongue frenetically and recklessly, bumping into the rambunctious bodies around them. 

Draco gets lost in her lips. It is a distraction, another method of getting his mind off of the throbbing pain in his body—particularly, in his arm. Whatever he can do to hide the feeling of the mark, he does. He takes drugs, he drinks wildly, he kisses random women, and he tattoos other parts of his body, a strategy for ignoring the one tattoo that constantly plagues his eyesight. He copes in whatever way possible. 

After what feels like hours of deep, chaotic kissing, Draco feels another tug at his arm. His lips part from the girl's, who bites her lower lip and waves goodbye with her slim fingers. Draco chuckles ecstatically, waving back with his free hand and twisting his head to see who is holding him. It is Pansy, who also grips Theo's black t-shirt in front of her. 

"Come on, lover boy, let's fucking dance," Pansy slurs, smirking cheekily. 

Draco flicks his wet tongue against the roof of his mouth, rolling his eyes and head as if to help guide and circulate the drugs within his system. "Fucking hell, Parkinson! I was busy!" he shouts over the music. Pansy whips her head around again, sticking her tongue out playfully and lifting her hand to grip the sides of his chin. His lips scrunch up between her fingers; he emits a naughty growl at Pansy.

"Dance with your friends, Malfoy!" she cries out, throwing her arms in the damp air and throwing her head back in ecstasy. Draco laughs, the drug dragging out the positive emotions which he has repressed for so long. He feels free, unrestricted, and numb of all other pain. All that courses through his mind is the splendid sensation of elation. 

They dance for the rest of the night as a group, relishing in their escape from the cruelty and vindictiveness of the outside world. They belong to Amortentia—their hearts, souls, bodies, and minds course through the club like its very own organs, pulsing and vibrating with pleasure. 

This is where they belong. Surrounded by people like them. Wild, enthusiastic, desiring to feel something—anything. And it's where they will continue to go until something else comes along, should anything or anyone ever do so.

-

Dawn sheathes the streets outside of Amortentia. Draco and his friends pile out of the club, stumbling and grumbling with the aftereffects of the drugs and alcohol stirring in their systems.

There is dried blood staining the bottom of Adrian's nose, right between his nostrils and lips. He slowly lifts his finger and swipes his nostrils compulsively, sniffing intensely. Blaise bears Daphne's petite body against his, helping her walk in the barren streets of Hogsmeade. Theo and Pansy do the same, leaning against one another and letting their hands trace each other's bodies. 

Draco's eyes are on fire. 

His tongue is dry, desperate for water, alcohol—something to revitalize his exhausted body. Most of all, he craves more drugs. The withdrawal is strong, harassing his body relentlessly for the same feeling again. Because now that the effects have worn off, Draco can only feel two things: the emptiness in his soul and the pain of his mark. 

His mark, which should be dead, ineffective, and void, terrorizes his body, pressing him to take in more drugs in whatever form possible. 

The group stumbles across the desolate road towards their shared loft just outside of Hogsmeade, only a few paces from the club. They had no luck finding a place to live in the quaint town, or anywhere else for that matter—no one wanted former Death-Eaters living near them. Only the owner of Amortentia, Titus Cromwell, who owns several other buildings on the outskirts of Hogsmeade, graciously allowed the group to live in one of his edifices. 

The six of them live in a cramped, three-bedroom apartment, surviving off of Titus' generosity and understanding of their predicament. A former Slytherin himself, Titus does everything he can to accommodate the struggling young adults, including bypassing their rent. 

He's more of a mentor figure and friend to them than any other adult at Hogwarts ever was. 

Pansy groans, stumbling onto the ground on her hands and knees. 

"Fuck," Theo mutters, he himself completely dazed, bending over and latching his arms around her waist. He drags her back to her feet, wrapping her limp arm around his shoulder and gripping her waist with his other arm. "You okay?"

Pansy nods and incoherently mumbles a plethora of profanities. 

"Merlin, Pansy, we're almost home. Get ahold of yourself," Blaise over his shoulder, simultaneously struggling to keep Daphne on her feet. He holds onto her for dear life, determined to protect her from anything and everything. Blaise has always been that way with Daphne—he'd do anything for her. 

"Fuck... off... Blaise," Pansy snarls. 

Theo is quick to defend Pansy. "Worry about your girl, Zabini."

Blaise shoots them a dirty look, his coarse eye stabbing the two with anger. 

"Would you all just shut the _fuck_ up?" Draco grumbles, rubbing the front of his head with his sweaty fingers. His body is shaking, still recovering from the aftermath of the drugs leaving his system. 

He wants them back, more than anything. He'll take whatever he can to feel nothing again.

It all happens too quickly. 

One second, Draco and his friends are stumbling across the street, as is routine. The next second, there are sudden bursts of white lights appearing and flagging the sides of each friend. The lights morph into figures dressed in navy robes. Unable to comprehend exactly what is happening due to the delayed relay of information from his eyes to his brain, which is still stained with the aftereffects of the cocaine, Draco slowly opens his mouth and begins to speak: "What the fuck is—"

Buff arms wrap around Draco's back and clasp onto his stomach. He hears the confounded screams of Pansy and Daphne up ahead, followed by the chaotic spurts of profanities from Theo, Blaise, and Adrian. The sounds blend in his mind, making distinguishing the voices incredibly difficult; he is just able to make out the low tones from the higher ones. 

His eyes begin to process what is happening; a dozen or so men surround him and his friends, yanking them apart and grabbing their arms tightly. 

"Who the fuck are you!?" he hears Theo shout, watching him violently struggle beneath their grips. 

The men do not answer. In the blink of Draco's eye, Theo is gone, then Pansy, then Blaise, Daphne, and Adrian. All sucked up into the air with the mysterious guests.

"Wait... what the fuck—"

And before Draco can finish the sentence or fully comprehend the situation, he too is swallowed by the air in a burst of white light, the hands of the men still glued to his arms. His body twists and contorts under the immense pressure of the sky. He is apparating. The weight of the air against his body causes his brain to wildly slosh around his skull, and he feels the urge to gag and retch everything still remaining in his heavy stomach. 

Before he does just that, he crashes onto the floor. A cold, dark floor lined with navy, square tiles. 

Groaning in pain, he slowly flutters his eyes open; his vision is still hazy, mixed with the aftereffects of the drugs, the alcohol, and the traumatizing, forced apparition. He scans the large room, attempting to understand his current situation. 

There is a golden desk in front of him, its antique legs curling at the bottom in a coil of plants and flowers. A large chair rests behind the desk. It is wooden; draped on back of the chair is a long, thin, Persian runner. The chair horizons over the desk's surface. Behind the setup of the office are long, horizontal windows that overlook a floor of perfectly lined desks. 

Newspapers are stacked across the desk along with randomly sprawled papers, quills, and books. There is a golden lamp, the bulb blaring from its nook; it emits a warm tone in Draco's direction, and he can't help but squirm under the heat and brightness of the lamplight. Everything around him is cool-toned except for the lamp. He cringes, feeling a load of rocks force his stomach down onto the floor. 

_Where the fuck am I?_

Through his ringing ears, he can just barely make out the moans and whimpers of his friends around him, who squirm under the contrasting colors of the room as well. Moments ago, they were treading the streets of Hogsmeade; now, they lie prone on an office floor, their visions hazy and their bodies writhing. 

Draco uses every ounce of strength he has to lift himself up; his torso hovers just above the ground, supported by his wobbly arms. He hears someone next to him gag and retch, followed by a splatter of liquids against the floor. 

There is a groan from a few feet away. Draco twists his head to see a group of men, reduced in size but still just like the ones from before, watching the Slytherins squirm on the floor. He grits his teeth at them, fully prepared to curse them out with whatever words he can think of in the moment. 

"You stupid, bloody, motherfucking, cock-sucking asswipes—"

"Language please, Mr. Malfoy." 

Draco's head shoots to the right, his eyes searching for the source of the new voice. 

He perceives a tall, dark man standing near the windows in regal blue and purple robes, overlooking the aligned desks below. When the man turns around, Draco emits a low groan. 

"Merlin's ball sack," he moans, dropping his face and smacking it against the floor again. 

Kingsley Shacklebolt chuckles pleasantly, and Draco can faintly perceive his quick footsteps make their way over towards him, the light clanks of his dress shoes echoing under the floor and into his ear through a wave of vibrations. Shacklebolt leans his back against the front of his desk, his legs right in front of Malfoy's line of vision. 

"What the fuck are we doing here?" Theo mumbles. 

"You all look like you've had quite the night," Shacklebolt says with an honest tang of concern. 

"Would you just fucking tell us what is going on?" Draco jeers with impatience. 

Shacklebolt sighs, clasping his hands together in front of his body. "Of course. You all deserve an explanation for why you were suddenly dragged here."

Draco hears Pansy's unmistakably intolerant scoff—an oddly comforting sound for him. It reminds him that even though the six of them have become ghosts of who they were in the past, some elements still remain embedded within them. Pansy's sharp yet entertaining attitude is one of those things. It keeps Draco sane. 

“Go on, then," Theo remarks. "Spit it out, _your highness."_

Theo's sarcasm. Music to Draco's ears. 

"Yes, I suppose I will," Shacklebolt sighs. "I'm afraid the situation which has garnered your attendance here is rather disturbing. It has to do with a former classmate of yours. Graham Montague."

Draco can't help the groans; they escape his dry mouth with ease, signifying his desperation for more drugs. Just... something. Anything to help with the spins, the pain, the constant pounding in his head. 

Shacklebolt clears his throat. 

Nothing prepared them for the words that spilled out of Shacklebolt's trembling mouth: 

"A few weeks ago, Mr. Montague committed suicide."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please read the following carefully: 
> 
> It is not my intention to romanticize drug use in any way, shape, or form. I strongly discourage my readers (especially those who are younger) from participating in the actions presented in this story. Please take this fan fiction seriously. This is not a life you should want to live. This story deals with addiction in a serious manner. Cocaine is not a pretty drug--it is damaging, expensive, and life-controlling. It will undoubtedly ruin your life. Please consume this literature (and any substance) carefully. 
> 
> I. AM. NOT. PROMOTING. DRUG. USE. I am cautioning against it, vehemently. Please take care of yourselves.


	3. Chapter 3

Hermione Granger paces the bustling hallways of the Ministry of Magic, clutching loose pieces of parchment to her chest and gripping the cotton webbing handle of her tan, leather satchel close to her right side. The time on her small watch reads three minutes before eight in the morning; she groans, disappointed in her lack of promptness for her meeting.

The Former Death-Eater Rehabilitation Effort. That is the name she ultimately decided to call it. It didn't harbor a whimsical or intriguing title, but it characterized the program in the most obvious way possible. And Hermione was proud of her initiative. It had only taken a few weeks to contrive, and it came right after the news of Graham's suicide.

_"Ms. Granger, I'm afraid I have some terrible news."_

_Hermione set her bag down on the navy tiled floor next to one of Kingsley's guest chairs in his office; lowering herself to sit in the plush cushion, she inhaled sharply through her nose, bracing herself for the impending news._

_"Is everything alright?" she asked, tucking a piece of loose hair behind her ear. Her curls still found a way to shade the sides of her face, no matter how hard she attempted to cinch them down._

_Kingsley opened his mouth to speak, but the words lodged themselves in his throat; he croaked, lowering and shaking his head in desolation._

_Hermione could tell something was terribly wrong. Kingsley was always upbeat, pleasant, and optimistic, especially after the war. He possessed an attitude and outlook about the future of the Wizarding World that Hermione found easy to value and appreciate._

_Yet here he was, his head hung low in despondency, stuttering over his words and even producing a tear or two from his usually glowing irises._

_"There is no easy way to relay this kind of information, so I will just say it. Please forgive me."_

_Hermione's mind wandered to dark places. She thought about Harry, Ron, Neville, Luna—anyone who mattered greatly to her. Their names and faces shot across her brain like a slideshow. Based on Kingsley's sullen expression, she feared the worst for them. It took everything within her to maintain a stoic expression on her face, which faintly trembled with fear and anticipation._

_He paused, took a deep breath, and spurted out the news. "A former classmate of yours, and previous Death Eater, Graham Montague, was found dead in his bathtub yesterday."_

_Hermione's breath hitched._

_A part of her was relieved. Relieved that it wasn't one of them._

_Another part of her ached with monumental grief._

_She felt her compassionate heart constrict and compress into itself, like her body was caving into the vital organ. She held back tears—tears for a boy she barely knew. Tears for a boy who tormented her and her friends for several years, along with the other merciless Slytherins._

_Tormented is an understatement, really. He called her slurs. He made jokes about her body, hair, personality, teeth, and blood. And he frequently assaulted her friends on the Quidditch Pitch—already an aggressive enough game, Quidditch was another perfect place for Graham to take his anger out on Harry, Ron, Fred, George, Angelina. He was vile._

_If he was so vile, then how could she be so hurt and saddened by the news of his death?_

_She took a deep breath, attempting to compose and reason with herself._

_It doesn't have to do with her previous house assignment, though she assumes that those Gryffindor qualities guide her to think this way. Ultimately, she grieves because she is human. She carries with her a fortitude of kindness, built on the foundations of her personal moral compass. The reason she feels so sorrowful is because of her anthropological inclination to feel compassion and sympathy for someone who suffered, even if that someone tortured and bullied her for years._

_"How... I don't... understand..." she mumbled, attempting to find the right words. But what can one say to this?_

_"The circumstances and reasons for his death are unclear right now," Kingsley said with a low, heavy voice. "However, the Auror who found him described some rather alarming descriptions of his left forearm—"_

_"Where his mark was," Hermione instinctively interrupted, already several steps ahead of Kingsley's explanation._

_"Yes," he responded. "There were... well... self-inflicted incisions..."_

_Hermione's ears began to ring, as if her body was compulsively unwilling to listen to the grotesque descriptions of Graham's body. She had lived the last several years of her life engulfed in ample traumatic images; the last thing she needed was to have more gruesome snapshots of death described to her. She was tired of death. Tired of Voldemort continuing to corrupt and wreak havoc on the Wizarding World, even if he was long dead._

_She especially recoiled at the fact that it was Graham Montague. She had not heard his name in a very long time. A tang of shame exploded in her body, as if she somehow blamed herself for his actions. Hermione knew that was a ridiculous notion—she did nothing to compel Graham to take his own life. Besides, this wasn't about her. It was about Graham._

_However, for that moment, she pondered whether or not he simply could have used a friend, a support group, or just someone to listen to him._

_Maybe they all needed that..._

Hermione approaches the entrance of Shacklebolt's office, her heart pounding with both dread and eagerness. She imagined that the group of Slytherins detained behind this golden door would be unwilling to work with her or Quincy Aberfield, her mentor, boss, and co-creator of the program at the Ministry. She also feared that the guests would resent her or brand her as some holier-than-thou savior—she'd never hear the end of such Gryffindor jokes. The last thing she wished to be was condescending towards the students she shared her life with at Hogwarts. People her age. Her peers, equals.

She also knew the imperativeness of the situation. A former Death Eater committed suicide, likely due to the lasting effects of the Dark Mark on his arm, body, heart, soul. The situation is dire and requires the collaboration and innovation of any available and willing Ministry worker.

Not many were willing to head the task force—to be associated with former Death Eaters was a recipe for misfortune and disaster. True to her kind heart, however, Hermione felt compelled to craft and set forth the F.D.E.R.E.

To make sure that her former classmates did not end up like Graham Montague. 

Hermione had read up on the Dark Mark both in preparation for the preliminary meeting and in genuine concern and fascination, hoping to learn more about the ways in which the mark works in the body. Like a disease infecting the host, the mark crawls above and beneath the skin of its host, manipulating and corrupting every bone, muscle, and cell to do its dirty work. It is like there is a fire constantly surrounding the victim, both on their exterior and interior.

A gust of wind quickly shoots up her back, and she recoils at the thought of being slave to that intense heat.

But now that Voldemort is dead, the mark should be inactive. It shouldn't emit any sort of burning sensation.

Maybe Graham felt there was no other way to escape his past. The mark is permanent; it simply faded when Voldemort died, leaving only a scar and a memory of one's past. So, the memory itself must have been too much for Graham to cope with. It was impossible for the mark to act in the same way as it did when Voldemort was alive and thriving.

She shudders at the thought of emptiness, considering just how difficult it must have been to deal with the constant state of isolation and depression brought on by the evil nature of the mark.

She tried to reason with his decision in her mind, but it was all too abstract and distanced from her own life. Hermione did not want to characterize Graham in a poor light after his death. She didn't want to try to understand nor judge his reasons for doing what he did. She barely wanted to think about it. In her mind, the most important thing was making sure that it never happened again.

"Deep in thought, Ms. Granger?"

Hermione's over-analytical contemplations are interrupted by Quincy Aberfield himself, who flags to her side in front of Shacklebolt's office door. Mr. Aberfield is tall and lean, with jet black hair and lovely fair skin that contrasts deeply with his navy suit. He carries a binder in one hand and a messenger bag over his shoulder, emanating a quintessential businessman appearance. He also exudes a wonderful sense of comfort through his perfect smile, one that could cure any sort of heartbreak, disease, or even loss. The curve of his lips creates lovely dimples on his cheeks, as well as wrinkles near his eyes which were no doubt due to his incessant smiling. Hermione was in awe of his optimism.

"When am I not, Mr. Aberfield?" Hermione responds with a brief smile.

Aberfield chuckles and shrugs. "Fair enough."

They stare at the door, Hermione's breath confined to her throat. She finds it incredibly difficult to lift her hand to the knob. A plethora of forces hold her back from crossing the threshold. It is unchartered territory, and no matter how brave she is, Hermione still harbors a sense of fear and dread about the impending task. She doesn't want to fail. She doesn't want to come off better than them. She just wants to help.

Aberfield notices Hermione's hesitation, cocking his head to the side and clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

"You just push the handle down to open the door, Hermione," he leans over and mutters, a cheeky smile encroaching on his face.

The breath escapes Hermione's mouth in a brief chuckle. She loves Aberfield's humor and his seamless ability to diffuse any tense situation. But the feeling of seeing her schoolmates again keeps her from reaching out to touch the handle. Even though she has done immense amount of preparation for this moment, she suddenly feels everything she learned seep out of her like a steady waterfall, crashing on the ground before her in a pile of ineffectiveness. She is terrified of facing them.

She didn't have much to do with them after the war. They had run off, secluded themselves from everyone else. That was their volition.

But Hermione assumed that there were other factors in play—the arrest of their parents, for example. Although their parents were released from Azkaban a year ago on the condition that they positively re-embed themselves into the Wizarding World, Hermione assumed it was incredibly difficult for her classmates to undergo such a traumatic series of events involving their families.

She knew the feeling, just in a different sense.

There was also the group's tainted identity as former Death Eaters. It could not have been easy to walk around with the mark on their arms. Hermione wondered if they were ever truly accepted again in the Wizarding World, or if every move they made was judged because of their past.

Then there was their shame, if they sheltered any. She didn't know what had become of them after the war because none of them returned to Hogwarts. For all she knew, they could have boarded themselves up somewhere private and completely withdrawn themselves from magic. It was all uncertain.

Her mind returns to Graham. Alone, afraid, and hopeless. She swore to herself she would do anything to keep that from happening again.

"I'm just a little nervous about seeing them again, is all," Hermione whispers, still frozen in place.

Aberfield sighs and places a comforting hand on her left shoulder; with each pat, she feels a sense of courage rush from her shoulder into her bloodstream.

"Everything will be alright," he reaffirms. "Now, there is no doubt they will be apprehensive about the idea. They will likely resent you." Hermione inhaled deeply. She wished this wasn't so hard. "But this is for the best. This is for them."

Hermione nods, already feeling a little more reassured than before.

Aberfield gestures his head towards the door. "Go on; you can do it."

With a deep breath, Hermione bunches her hand in a fist, knocks on the door, and lowers her hand to turn the handle. She pushes open the door and steps beyond the threshold.

The sight she stumbles upon is shocking.

In the corner, she sees Daphne Greengrass hurling into a trash bin. Her blonde hair is held by Blaise Zabini, who simultaneously strokes her back and whispers affirmations to her. She cries, her face red and puffy and her body convulsing.

She sees Pansy Parkinson and Theodore Nott leaning their backs against Kingsley's golden desk; their bodies are slumped into one another in a deep, trance-like daze. The bags under Pansy's eyes are purple and swollen, and her mouth hangs open like her jaw has completely surrendered itself to the effects of gravity. Theo's face is pale and discolored, and he sweats profusely from his temples.

Adrian Pucey is where her eyes fall next. He is sitting against a bookshelf to the right, holding a tissue to his nose; when he removes the tissue, Hermione notices blood dripping out of his left nostril. He seems unfazed by the nosebleed, like it is a common occurrence. But Hermione doesn't remember ever seeing Adrian suffer from compulsive nosebleeds. Then again, she never really surrounded herself with him, so who was she to determine whether or not they were normal. What was unsavory were his bloodshot eyes and incessant tremors. He practically shook the bookcase against his back, like a light earthquake.

And finally, just peaking behind Kingsley's desk, Hermione's traumatized eyes fell on him.

The first thing she noticed was his blonde hair. It was the same as ever—just as bright and illuminous as the first day she met him. Her eyes travel down towards his face, and she feels a sudden clang within her gut. He is pale, sweating, and convulsing lightly, his back leaned against the wall just below the windows of Kingsley's office. It's so foreign from his usual expressions, the ones she remembers so clearly at Hogwarts when he'd pass her in the corridors, snarking and chuckling with his friends in her direction, no doubt having to do with her clothes, looks, or dirty blood.

His white button up has his own small blood stains on it, and the sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. His legs are pulled into his chest as he sits despondently, eyes closed and shut away from the reality of the situation.

Hermione feels a strange tug towards him, like he's the first person she wants to see.

But with Daphne vomiting in the corner of the room, Hermione feels the urge to break off and step towards her and Blaise. She kneels next to them, dropping her bag and papers and helping Blaise collect some of Daphne's stray pieces of hair to hold behind her head.

Blaise looks up at Hermione and rolls his eyes. "Oh, for Merlin's sake..."

Hermione inhales, trying to remain as patient and kind as possible and focusing her attention solely on Daphne. She shushes her sweetly, placing her hand on Daphne's left arm in an attempt to calm her down.

After a few more hurls, Daphne takes in a deep breath and hangs her head into the bin. She catches her breath and gingerly mutters Blaise's names, which echoes through the hollow trash, and she reaches her right arm behind her to feel for Blaise's presence.

"I'm here," Blaise says reassuringly, taking her hand below his and wrapping their clasped hands around the front of her waist.

"What can I do?" Hermione asks, her eyes darting to Blaise's. She notices that he too is trembling, very slightly. He harbors all the pain in his body in his eyes, which are bulging out of his sockets. Tears swell around them, and Hermione sees he is doing everything possible to take care of Daphne—he suffers quietly for her.

Blaise takes in a deep breath, trying to hold in his anger. "We're fine, Granger."

His curt response is all Hermione needs to feel absolutely out of place. She knew this was a risky idea. She knew she wouldn't be received well by them.

She nods and stands, surveying the room and the other Slytherins. Aberfield is already tending to Pansy and Theo, asking them questions to keep them awake and alert. They mumble their answers, their eyes rolling up and down as they try to stay conscious.

"Where is Kingsley?" Hermione asks. Aberfield shrugs, his face plagued with a worried expression.

"I'm afraid he must've stepped out." His head gestures towards Adrian, a look of concern spread across the facets of his face. "You should check on him, Hermione."

She feels compelled to approach her sworn enemy first, but she obliges and walks towards Adrian's trembling body on the opposite side of the room. She bends down in front of him, raising her hand to his face to hold the blood-stained tissue against his nose. The moment he notices her, he releases his hand and drops it to the floor, limp under the unrelenting pressure of gravity.

"Well, well, well," he mutters through a snarky smile. "Look what we have here."

Hermione lowers her eyebrows and cocks her head to the left. "Hold still, Adrian," she instructs quietly, dabbing his nose with the limited amount of white tissue left. He snickers at her and rolls his eyes.

"I can't," he remarks with a cheeky grimace.

"Why? What's going on with you all?" she asks, her voice a little quieter than before, as if the whole scene was some sort of giant secret.

It wasn't. Everyone in the room was conscious of what was happening. And it didn't seem to bother them at all.

The only people shocked by the situation are Hermione and Aberfield.

Adrian snorts, as if Hermione is missing something perfectly clear. "Merlin, you're as much of a prude as I thought you were."

"Is your nose broken?" Hermione asks innocently.

Adrian delves into a fit of laughter. "Guess street smarts also aren't your thing."

"I can't help you if you don't tell me what's wrong," she says, trying to stay as calm as possible. "Perhaps I could use a spell to fix your nose, or—"

Adrian coughs suddenly, and Hermione uses her free hand to steady his lurching shoulders against the bookcase. Once he catches his breath, he answers her. "Fuck's sake, Granger—it's part withdrawal, part hangover, part us being apparated here against our will. Mix them together and this is the scene you end up with."

Hermione's eyes widen, much to Adrian's enjoyment. He laughs and sighs, sinking deeper into the shelf with satisfaction at the nerve he has struck within Hermione.

"Merlin, Granger, don't look so terrified of us," he comments. "We were just having a little bit of fun. Like usual."

To her left, Hermione hears a soft moan. Her head darts in the direction of the noise; she watches as Draco struggles to keep his eyes open, swaying back and forth and rolling his eyes in the back of his head.

She feels a pull, a connection—something drawing her to Draco. Like an elastic band, ready to snap back any second. Hermione turns back to Adrian, who observes her shifting expression.

"Go on," Adrian says, repossessing the tissue from Hermione's quivering hand. "I'm fine, Granger. That one on the other hand—" he motions towards Draco— "that one could definitely use some of your world-class comforting skills."

Hermione groans at his sarcasm and stands abruptly, listening to Adrian chuckle as she dashes towards Draco. He rocks to the left and right in a steady, pendulum-like manner. Just before he topples over too far to the right, Hermione stretches out her arms and grasps his shoulders, steadying him upright against the wall behind him.

Now that Hermione is closer to him, she can see more clearly just how different he looks from a few years ago. His bone structure is defined, balanced out, however, by his hollowed cheeks. He retains the pale disposition, but whereas his previous paleness was of a standard, biological sort, intrinsic to the Malfoy family, this paleness was due to something external and beyond his control. Like a presence of some sort has taken over his body and caused the immense discoloration.

She fears the worst, thinking back to Adrian's word: _withdrawal._

Then, her eyes fall on his tattoos. They're everywhere. She can see them poking out of his white button-up, which has several of the top buttons undone. Coloring his chest magically, the black tattoos are random, sprawled on almost every inch of his torso. His arms are full of them as well, so much so that she can barely make out where his Dark Mark is.

But she looks closely and sees it. And she also sees...

Faded scars. Elevated skin lining the mark. She can just barely make out the healed scars, but they are there. Hidden behind all the black ink on his arm.

She lets out a shaky breath, and her eyes wander to meet his, which just narrowly hang open.

Those grey irises are still there, though. Beneath the bloodshot eyes and the purple bags, she can clearly see his silver bulbs; those eyes have haunted and enchanted her for years.

Then, his eyes connect with hers.

"Malfoy?" she asks, desperate to hear a response.

Lucidity creeps its way back into Draco's mind the longer he stares at Hermione. He slowly begins to remember everything—her curly, disgruntled hair, her thin lips, her rosy cheeks, and even her smell. He locks the scent in his nose—strawberries and vanilla.

Like the cocaine, her smell seeps up his nose and electrocutes his brain. He snaps out of his trance and truly sees Hermione before him, concern splattered all over her face.

_Fucking hell, could this place get any worse?_

"Draco, are you okay—"

"Fuck, Granger, don't ever call me that," Draco mutters, letting his head fall limp to the side. "And get your hands off of me; I'm fine."

Hermione winces and inhales sharply. Nothing has changed. And why would it have? Did she really expect Draco to be any different after the war?

"You'll topple over if I let you go, _Malfoy,"_ she responds, a hint of annoyance in her voice.

"Allow me to let you in on a little secret, Granger," he growls, lifting his face and aligning it inches away from hers. She could smell the remnants of alcohol on his warm breath, as well as tinges of iron from an unknown source of blood. "I don't fucking care if I fall over."

Hermione wonders what it would feel like to just let him hit the floor. Watch him squirm on the ground in pain. Merlin knows he deserves it.

It would be an interesting shift in perspective. She could watch Draco writhe on the floor in agony, beg for everything to just be over. Just like he did to her, on the floor of his manor. He just watched her scream and squirm under Bellatrix's grasp. Now, she had the power to do that to him.

Hermione looks deep into Draco's eyes. Behind the fire and anger in his irises, she can sense a person in deep, tumultuous pain. Someone who resents everything and everyone. Someone who needs help.

So, she continues to hold onto his arms, ignoring his threats and crass comments.

"How long have you been here?" Hermione asks. Draco ignores her, staring at the wall to his left and avoiding any sort of verbal contact with her. She rolls her eyes and turns her head back to Adrian, asking him the same question.

"A few hours," he answers, leaning his head against the bookcase, nooking it between two books.

"And you've all just been sitting here like this? Where is Kingsley?"

He shrugs. "Said he'd be back in a few minutes."

Hermione turns back to Draco. The feeling returns—the one where she feels like her heart will combust. She doesn't quite understand where it is coming from. It could be the same feeling of remorse when she heard about Graham's suicide. But even then she did not harbor the same amount or kind of feelings then as she does now, staring at Draco's tired and empty face.

She has the urge to hug him, but she quickly dispels that terrible idea. Draco would never want that from her.

The room has settled slightly, with Daphne no longer throwing up and the others only scarcely moaning. Everything in Hermione's mind centers around Draco. She tries to think of a spell she can use—anything to help him recover faster. But she does not know what to do, how to act, or what sort of spell could cure whatever hangover and withdrawal he is going through.

Surely, there is one out there.

Adrian was right. She is a total prude. Completely ignorant of the reality of the world around her, sucked into her little bubble of perfection and order. She has no idea what it feels like to let loose with such substances.

It doesn't look very tempting.

Beneath the terrifying blood vessels that swarm Draco's eyes, Hermione perceives the most beautiful part of him. That silver augment is captivating beyond words. She wishes she could stop thinking about them, but she's gone through a withdrawal of her own in the last few years—a withdrawal of his eyes. No matter how rude he was to her, Hermione always seemed to get lost in them.

Suddenly, he looks at her again.

She feels the tug again. Like a pang in her heart. It tries to rip the vital organ right out of her chest so that it can be closer to him.

Maybe he could feel it too. Maybe she could hug him. Maybe—just this once—she could illustrate her desire for reconciliation. Maybe she could—

Her thoughts are interrupted by the abrupt sound of the front door swinging open. She turns her head to face the door, spotting Kingsley in the threshold holding a wooden tray filled with vials, potions, and antidotes.

"Oh, that's just wonderful—the _king_ has returned with our breakfast, ladies and gentlemen," Theo groans. "What's on the menu, then? Poached eggs? Toast and jam?" Pansy gargles with euphoric laughter, and the two orchestrate a seething giggle, slapping one another playfully with their hands.

Aberfield continues to tend to Theo, dabbing his sweaty face with his pink and yellow polka-dotted handkerchief, trying to work around his rambunctious demeanor.

Kingsley stumbles into the room, placing the tray upon his desk and observing the sullen expressions of the Slytherins. His eyes fall upon Hermione, who holds Draco up by her trembling hands.

"I have some antidotes and potions to help with their conditions," Kingsley says, organizing the vials on his desk. "Come Quincy, Hermione. Help me portion these out."

Quincy stands up and offers a hand to Kingsley, inspecting the various labels on the vials. Hermione remains attached to Draco, seemingly unwilling to let go of his arms.

"I think I should stay here," she mutters, nudging her head towards Draco's limp body. Kingsley nods.

She turns her eyes back to face Draco, searching for any sort of life left within him.

His lucidity has returned, but the brink of unconsciousness seems so intriguing to him. That is, until his eyes reach hers, and he suddenly feels a burst of confidence shoot through his mind. He addresses her with the same attitude and manner he always has:

"Fucking hell, Granger, can't seem to keep your hands off of me, can you?"


	4. Chapter 4

Hermione's initial intuition was right. There is no clear wizarding remedy for curing the aftereffects of muggle drugs, especially those as strong and dangerous as cocaine.

_Cocaine._

_Merlin..._

She supposes the languished Slytherins could conjure up some all-purpose healing spell or ingest a universal antidote to counteract and reduce their overwhelming symptoms—and that is clearly what Kingsley has brought with him—but no antidote could honestly and effectively target and weaken the root cause of their internal suffering.

No. Tackling the source of the problem required something further. Something more substantial and effective. Medicines and potions could not brighten the perpetual darkness surrounding the Slytherins, just as the drugs could not. They needed something beyond a quick, temporary fix. This was clear to Hermione before, and it is only further illuminated now as she lays her eyes upon the scene of her groggy, sullen peers. This necessitates comprehensive, lifelong treatment, aimed at rehabilitating and reaffirming the value and worth of the Slytherins.

Because no matter how poorly they may see themselves, Hermione sees them as harboring immense amounts of worth. She clandestinely always has.

The six of them reluctantly consume the potions, administered by Kingsley and Aberfield; the liquid works even quicker than the cocaine, flowing through their troubled bodies like soft honey. Hermione's hands remain attached to Draco's shoulders, a small vial notched between her fingers. She holds him up firmly against the wall, personally overseeing his ingestion of the potion. Balancing his weight against her left hand, Hermione holds the vial in front of his haggard eyes.

"Open your mouth, Malfoy," she instructs quietly, lifting the small vial to his closed lips. He smirks mischievously, and his fatigued eyes wander off to the dark blue ceiling, as if to both tease and anger Hermione.

"Fuck off, Granger. This is the best part."

"The best part?" she queries, scrunching her eyebrows into a cinched and perplexed expression. _What could he possibly mean by that? How on earth is this the best part?_

Draco looks back at Hermione and snickers at her befuddled expression. Such a fucking prude. "Precisely. It's the realization that tonight, I get to do this all over again," he slurs, flaring his nostrils and running his tongue across the sharp, bottom edges of his canines, as if to not only piss Hermione off but also scare her—make her cringe and recoil in fear of him.

She clenches her jaw and takes a deep breath. She's not afraid. Just... bewildered.

Bewildered that someone who was once so poised, pretentious, and snobbish could so easily lose himself. Could now look so different from everything she imagined he would become. She never envisioned this image of Draco—sporting tattoos, swollen eyes, or dirty and stained clothes.

Divination and foreseeing the future were never her strengths, but _Merlin_ she thought she had Draco completely down to a tee.

Evidently, she didn't.

"Just please take the antidote, Malfoy," she says again, pressing the mouth of the vial up against Draco's swollen lips. "You need it." She waits for him to part his mouth, even for a split second, so that she can properly dispense the antidote into the aperture. The cold, dark opening that seemed to only spew words of discontent towards her. Never anything else.

He teases her for several more seconds, simply staring into her eyes as the vial rests against his cherry lips. His irises twinkle with pleasure; watching her squirm and uncomfortably shift the expression on her reddened face gives his eyes life. Invigorates them. Reminds Draco just how much he loves to see Hermione cringe and cower underneath his gaze.

It's a joke to him—Hermione can tell. Draco is purposely toying with her, crawling underneath her skin in order to stir discomfort within her. It slowly begins to work; the longer that Draco stares at her, unwilling to open his mouth, the more Hermione recognizes the hot feeling of ire rising in her blood. It's as if he is shooting daggers, singed at their tips with a liquid fusion of rage and annoyance, right through Hermione's skin, stabbing, poisoning, and bathing her blood with his own wrath.

Before Hermione can scold his careless demeanor, Draco opens his mouth and notches the vial right between his teeth. To Hermione's dismay, he knocks his head back and lets the liquid rush down his throat. Once he feels the stinging fluid settle below his esophagus, he lowers his head back down and relishes in Hermione's baffled expression—her wide-open mouth, her enlarged eyes, and her rosy, stupefied cheeks. "Satisfied?" he mumbles, the vial still lodged between his dentures, teetering up and down slightly as his mouth moves to speak.

Irritated. That's how she feels. Bloody maddened by his mood swings, his preposterous attitude, and his seemingly careless outlook on the situation. How could he be so callous? How could he sit here and continue to tantalize her like this?

Hermione resolves that she will likely never escape his provocative nature. He would haunt her for the rest of his life—or, at least for the duration of the program—with his malevolent and combustible disposition.

He stares at her, flares his nostrils, and puffs the vial out of his mouth down into his lap. It lands on his legs with a dull _thud._

Hermione's hands are still glued to Draco's shoulders, but the antidote is fast working, and she can slowly begin to see the color of life reappear upon his naturally pale disposition; in a matter of seconds, a soft pink tint flushes his cheeks, and the enlarged blood vessels in his eyes reduce in size, uncovering a perfect shade of grey atop his glistening, white pearls. She purses her lips as Draco stares at her, mouth open, tongue pressed against the inside of his lower lip.

"Hands off me, Granger, _now,_ " he growls, and the mischievous atmosphere shifts back to a cold and volatile one. Hermione can't catch a break with him, can't pinpoint what it is he is feeling. She is constrained in this constant and unnerving state of uncertainty with Draco, and even though it's a place she has always found herself, she can't comprehend why he won't—for one _bloody_ minute—put aside his pride right now. In this moment. When he appears so vulnerable and weak.

"I'm fine," he snaps again, as if he is somehow reading her mind. As if her innermost thoughts lie open in front of him like a book, and Hermione is foolishly pointing to the exact line which she is thinking.

Hermione obliges to his former command, removing her hands and standing up. Draco sits up by himself, wiggling his fingers and stretching his arms forward; he rolls his shoulders back and cranes his neck, snapping it several times for good measure, just to piss Hermione off a little bit more. The sound of his cracking bones leads her to shudder. She almost snaps, almost loses her temper at him.

But it's not worth it. Not yet, at least.

She doesn't say anything to Draco, just turns around and storms off towards the others.

Aberfield is kneeling is front of Adrian, watching as his body reacts rather agreeably to the soothing medicine coursing within him. His broad chest rises up and down in steady breaths. Adrian twirls the empty vial in his broad hands and between his fingers with ease. He catches Hermione's eyes upon his; he winks cheekily at her, opening his mouth and jabbing his tongue against the inside of his cheek.

_Merlin, don't any of them take this seriously?_

"Well, someone please wake up Salazar from his deep, perpetual sleep—look who it is!" Theo exclaims, pointing his finger at Hermione standing just a few feet away from him. She spins abruptly, her eyes falling upon the scene of Theo and Pansy still lounging against Kingsley's desk. No doubt they have already consumed the anecdote—Theo is no longer trembling and sweating, and Pansy no longer looks half-dead. They hold hands between their touching legs and smirk at the sight of Hermione: "If it isn't Gryffindor's Golden Girl."

"Fuck, Granger, three years later and you still can't seem to tame that bushy lion's mane on top of your head, can you?" Pansy snarls, dropping her head on Theo's shoulder and giggling into his neck. Theo joins her in a chorus of laughs. "True fucking Gryffindor you are—taking the whole 'lion' thing to the next level."

Hermione frowns; she knew this would be difficult. She knew.

"Oh, and don't tell me," Theo starts, still recovering from his own fit of merriment, "you and that pathetic, ginger bozo still shagging?"

Hermione feels her chest tighten, visibly uneased by Theo's remark about Ron.

Ron. Ron. Ron.

She hadn't seen Ron in a few months. She had become so enamored and involved with her internship at the Ministry—desperate to turn it into a full-time job—that she discovered it to be rather arduous to remain connected with him—Harry as well. Ron worked full-time with George at Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, rotating between morning and evening shifts; Harry was employed at Hogwarts as the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor for a year now—he seemingly broke the curse of constantly rotating professors. Hermione's job required the same gyration of shifts, some during the morning and some during the evening, and thus it made connecting with them rather difficult.

She and Ron tried. They _truly_ tried. But their lives veered in two different directions, and the courses they fell on never seemed to converge. Hermione belonged to her work, and Ron belonged to his family. Nothing more.

And anyhow, her heart didn't truly feign that way. She thought it would after the war, but things between them began to fizzle, and before she knew it, they were hardly speaking.

It is a touchy subject. And Hermione's sunken countenance clearly expresses it.

"Seems like I've hit quite the nerve," Theo mutters, cocking his head to the right in Pansy's vicinity and sassily raising his eyebrows.

"She'll be fine," Pansy responds, glaring at Hermione's shaking face. "Strong, resilient Gryffindors like her aren't phased by anything. Isn't that right, Granger?"

Theo places a kiss on her neck.

Before Hermione can offer a retort—one she knows would be inappropriate and against her better judgement—she feels a steady hand latch onto her shoulder. She turns around and sees Aberfield offering a pleasant and reaffirming smile, as if to say that _everything will be alright._

Hermione reads his message through his eyes.

It's always been people's eyes that Hermione feels an attraction to—a magnetism towards. They are more than windows to the soul. Eyes have the ability to say what words simply can't. Stare long enough, and people start to reveal who they truly are—what their words or actions cannot even begin to express.

Even as she looks into Aberfield's eyes, all she can really think about is his. Grey, like a storm, hurricaning inside of her stomach and making her intestines twist with ire. Her blood boils as she pictures his coarse eyes glaring at her. He drives her crazy, makes her angry beyond words; Merlin, if only he could look into her eyes _right now—_

"Are any of you going to bloody tell us why you're keeping us here? Or maybe why you felt the need to bloody _kidnap_ us in the brink of morning?" Blaise asks, leaning against the wall just next to Daphne, who slowly recovers on the floor below him. Even after taking the medicine, Daphne still looks exhausted and traumatized.

If Draco and Adrian are telling the truth about this being a daily ritual, then Hermione cannot comprehend how Daphne's body is able to endure it. How she can so willingly undergo such immense trauma and distress. Hermione tries to locate the Dark Mark on Daphne's left arm, wondering if the answer to that question lies there, like it did upon Draco's. Does she have internal and external scars, too?

Her brain reels. Graham. She can't stop thinking about _Graham._ The image of him, alone in his bathroom, bleeding and crying in pain, pops into her mind; she quickly dispels it, represses it, does everything in her influence to subdue the gruesome scene that her brain almost conjures. She doesn't need any more horrific thoughts staining the memory bank in her frontal lobe. She has enough of those to last a lifetime.

"Yes, well, you all deserve to know that much," Aberfield responds, clasping his hands together and pacing back towards the front door of Kingsley's office, where Kingsley stands, to address the group as a whole. Hermione finds herself standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, unsure of where to go, until Aberfield, with a discreet wave of his hand, sweetly gestures for her to stand next to him. The snickers of the Slytherins ring in her ear tauntingly as Hermione steps forward and joins Kingsley and Aberfield.

It's an odd feeling, standing above the Slytherins with both the Minister of Magic and the Liaison of Wizard to Wizard Relations, lecturing to her peers about the consequences of their past actions. It doesn't feel right. The dynamic is unsettling. Realizing this reality and unwilling to stir any more resentment within the Slytherins against her, Hermione inconspicuously shrinks behind Aberfield's broad shoulders.

She doesn't wish to distance herself from the program she has worked so hard on, but at the same time she cannot shake the tense dynamic that has grown and fostered itself within this room. She sees it in every one of their eyes, especially his.

He stares at her with disdain.

Aberfield interrupts her restless thoughts with an explanation of the program.

"First of all, let me just say how sorry I am about your friend, Graham. I cannot imagine what must be going through your heads right now."

_Merlin, I'm hungry. Those fucking poached eggs don't sound like such a joke right now._

_Bloody hell, this is humiliating. And my breath smells like shit. I could hurl all over again just thinking about it. Oh Merlin, bless Blaise's heart for putting up with me._

_Fucking hell, you know you're deprived of sex when Granger kind of turns you on. Fucking holding the tissue up to my nose like that. Doesn't she know how that is exactly the kind of thing that turns men on? Merlin's ball sack..._

_What I wouldn't give to shag Theo right here in this office. In front of everyone, just to fuck with them. He could throw me over this desk, pound my head against its golden surface over and over again, and fuck me into eternity, and I'd thank him a million bloody times for his service. Fucking hell, those hands wrapped around my neck make me want to scream his name in ecstasy—_

_Merlin, I need to get Daphne in a bed. Somewhere she can rest. She doesn't look too good..._

_I want more fucking drugs, that's what's going through my head. Cocaine, ecstasy. Just something. Fuck you. Fuck all of you for making me take that stupid fucking antidote. I wanted to feel more. And fuck Granger for almost forcing it down my throat. Merlin, the way she squirmed when she saw me swallow it, though. That was satisfying, rewarding, and completely worth the it._

"It is imperative, at a time like this, that we reach out to you all to check in—see how you are coping. And, as Liaison of Wizard to Wizard Relations, my job is to help integrate disenfranchised witches and wizards back into our communities, so that they may be an effective member of our society."

Draco obnoxiously yawns, but Hermione can sense that he isn't tired. Just plain bored.

"You see, after the end of the war, I noticed that there were alienated people—like yourselves—who were shunned away from society, all because of a choice they made years before. Now, I truly believe there is a possibility that you all can reintegrate yourselves into our new and improved civilization—one where witches and wizards live peacefully, unphased by silly things like blood or class status."

As Aberfield continues his speech, Hermione inspects the faces of her former classmates, dying to uncover their sincerest reactions to the premise of the program. All of them are confused and baffled by the proposition. Nervousness creeps its way into her already anxious system, reminding her of a cold, hard fact: they are likely to be completely unwilling to go through with this.

Unfortunately for them, they don't necessarily have much of a choice in the matter.

"With Ms. Granger's help, we've developed a rehabilitation effort of sorts for you all. And there are several goals and initiatives of the program." 

"Fan-fucking-tastic," Theo mumbles, just loud enough for everyone to hear. Pansy snickers and bites her lower lip, attempting to hold back her already spilling fit of laughter.

"Yes, thank you very much, Mr. Nott," Aberfield responds with a colossal influx of patience. "It's called the Former Death Eater Rehabilitation Program—"

"What the fuck kind of name is that?" Pansy mumbles.

"It's a year-long program—"

The group groans.

"Five days a week—"

"Fucking hell," Draco mutters, the back of his head colliding with the wall behind him.

Aberfield continues, despite the obvious dissent and discord: "And it will be centered around unlearning everything you have been taught about dark magic, classism, and blood purity."

Pursing and popping his lips in the silence of the confounded room of Slytherins, Theo leans forward. "Right, mate, can I be honest with you?" he says, raising one of his bushy eyebrows.   
Consenting to a comment that he would likely later regret, Aberfield motions his hand towards Theo. Theo clears his throat, an act that Hermione knows can only presage trouble.

"Nothing you are saying is of any care to me unless, at this proper moment, you put a lit cigarette between my fingers, or you fill my stomach with some bloody food. Those poached eggs from before sound really fucking appetizing right about now."

Snickers and giggles resound in the office, like an orchestra of babbling hyenas.

Pansy raises her hand to speak. "I take quite a long time getting ready in the morning," she interjects, brushing her hair behind her ears and leaning forward against her bended knees. "What with the daydreaming right as I wake up, then subsequently fucking Theo till he can barely breathe, then taking a shower with Theo and fucking him in there as well... and then there's the hassle of doing my makeup, drying my hair, brushing my teeth, ingesting my morning rush of coc—"

"Do you have a point to all of this, Ms. Parkinson?" Kingsley asks impatiently, shaking his head at the obscene images which Pansy describes. Hermione too feels uncomfortable at the brief yet vivid description which Pansy has created and slathered into her imagination.

"Well, I guess I'm just wondering... what's your policy if I show up to class a little late and, shall we say, dazed?" Pansy remarks, curving her lip in a snide smirk. "Sorry—if _Theo_ and I show up to class a little late and a little dazed?"

"Yes, and as you all can clearly see," Daphne continues, lending her own addition to the game, "I get poor headaches and hangovers the morning after, so it would seem that those two lovebirds aren't the only ones who would be showing up a tad bit tardy to your lessons." Blaise bites his lower lip and chuckles at the sudden burst of feistiness spilling out of Daphne's mouth.

Aberfield clears his throat, surveying the room with raised eyebrows. His eyes glaze over to Blaise, then Adrian, then Draco. Raising his hands in submission, Aberfield's right eyebrow rises. "Would any of you like to chime in with your concerns?"

Adrian puckers his lips. "I'm actually quite punctual, so I think I'm alright." And he winks.

More laughter. Hermione notices that even Draco is reveling in the charade, his cherry lips lifting on the sides to form a cheeky grin. His eyes connect with hers again; iris upon iris, recognizing Hermione's abject discomfort, Draco's eyebrows shoot up in another form of teasing her—another way to get under her skin. She bites down on her tongue, hard, trying desperately to hold in her displeasure.

Kingsley's right hand sprouts up, his index finger pointing at each of the culprits who undoubtedly stole his patience. "If you all are quite finished now—"

"It's alright, Kingsley," Aberfield interrupts, taking Kingsley's raised wrist in his hand and gently lowering it back to his side. Aberfield returns his attention to the unconvinced group; his tolerance mimics that of a teacher addressing their disobedient students, yet instead of resorting to punitive measures, he simply waits out the laughter and foolery.

"I know this must seem unfair, but I can assure you that this program is for your own good. Ms. Granger and I have worked very hard to create a comprehensive curriculum, and I have no doubt that she and I will not disappoint."

They stare back at him with blank expressions, completely unconvinced.

"Don't you want to be accepted again? Aren't you tired of doing the same exact thing every single day, with no one to console you or help you? Don't you think, three years after a traumatizing war—a war you all fought in as _children_ —that you all deserve some help? Don't you think you deserve to have _one_ bloody person care about you?"

The silence in the room is different now; the atmosphere has unquestionably shifted, and with it went the bickering, the laughing, and the snide remarks. The Slytherins bite their tongues.

"Well guess what," Aberfield continues, recognizing his current power over the room. "She is standing right here. And Ms. Granger is both willing and prepared to help you all. Should you truly want it in your hearts. I recommend that you do. Or the Ministry will have to intervene in another way."

Aberfield has hit a nerve. He has flipped a switch in them, right in the pit of their stomach, in the dark abysses where they have tried to repress every authentic feeling they have ever felt. Those feelings rush out immediately, swirling among their insides like a typhoon, weaving in and out of their organs, until finally the emotions reach their throats—Blaise chokes. He speaks first.

"I would," he declares. His friends glare at him. "For fuck's sake, you lot, maybe this can actually do us some good. We could get jobs. We could get our own apartments, so we don't have to subjugate our ears to these two—" he gestures to Theo and Pansy— "moaning and fucking incessantly all the bloody time—"

"You're one to ta-alk," Theo sings, his voice stretching and creating a fluid melody with the final word.

Blaise crosses his arms over his chest, digging his tongue into the bottom of his lip with a sense of indignation. His eyes dart back and forth as the wheels in his brain twist, and out of his mouth pours something Hermione never expected to hear: "Alright, Granger. I'm in. And so are these tossers."

There is an uproar of protests from the Slytherins. But the sounds are muffled within Hermione's ears. She stares at Blaise, mouth open, dumbfounded that he is so willing to do this. Blaise looks at her with his regal brown eyes and nods his head ever so slightly.

Progress. Somehow. Ten bloody minutes ago he was rejecting her help with something as trivial as taking care of Daphne. Now, he is the only one who seems the least bit receptive to the idea.

As the Slytherins continue to bicker, Hermione's eyes voyage towards Draco. His back is still glued to the wall, eyes fastened on her, and he wears a resentful and irate expression on his face. 

_I'm doing this for you, damnit,_ she thinks, wondering if Draco could truly read her mind.

His eyebrows creep up his temples. And with the muffled sounds of everyone quarreling around her, Hermione clearly hears and sees Draco clap his hands three times in sloth-like speed.

He would torment her until her hair falls out if he could. Watching her shriveled expression and flustered cheeks appear on her face is like sniffing cocaine—it is bloody addicting. Draco relishes off of the picture of it. He inhales the aroma of the room, as if to materialize and sketch in his mind the exact image and sensations surrounding his body when he made Granger look this way.

Add to his list another favorable drug: Granger's fucking flustered face.


	5. Chapter 5

If the Slytherins were going to attend this rehabilitation program, they concluded that they needed to be high out of their minds for the first meeting tomorrow.

Or—at the very least—convey a supply of drugs with them if the seminar got far too mind-numbingly painful to endure... which it no doubt would.

The thought of sitting through a meeting and listening to Aberfield's monotonously painful voice while simultaneously being chaperoned by none other than Hermione fucking Granger herself is too agonizing for Draco to chew over in his mind. He stays up all night, lying recumbent in his bed and gawking at the ceiling, his body craving the sweet extracts of alcohol to numb him or cause him to stagger off into a hazy slumber.

Against much dissent and anger from his friends, Blaise had insisted earlier that night that they bypass the nightly excursion to Amortentia.

_"I just think that we should take it easy before our first meeting tomorrow," Blaise muttered, reaching forward and retrieving one of the dimly lit blunts from the clear, glass ash tray positioned in the heart of the circle of sitting Slytherins, their legs crisscrossed into the shape of a pretzel._

_Blaise notched the blunt between the tips of his thumb and index finger and inserted it between his well-rounded lips. With a deep inhale, Blaise felt the soft burn of the cannabis breeze across his throat and into his system; he exhaled it out in unreserved satisfaction. The mix of the cannabis and tobacco infused pleasantly within his mouth, conceiving a feeling of ease and comfort that was far different from how cocaine or ecstasy made him feel._

_This was Blaise's favorite sensation. The calm, soothing, lightweight experience that the cannabis generated within him. The cocaine and ecstasy were proper for wild nights out when he and Daphne could dance with one another for what felt like hours, but on rare nights like this, when the friend group found themselves cooped up in their small loft, Blaise preferred the pacifying effects of cannabis over the uproar that the other drugs drew within him._

_They sat upon their cream, basketweave rug in the center of their living room, surrounded by two navy couches and a barren television stand shoved against the wall attached to Theo's bedroom. Save the boxy television perched on top of the dulled grey stand, the only other objects decorating the piece of furniture were two white candles, dried wax plastered on their sides from substantial use, and several scattered dime bags filled with white powder, bunched green leaves, and tiny, multicolored pills._

_The group vehemently protested Blaise's suggestion, desiring more than anything to arrive for their first F.D.E.R.E. meeting as hungover as possible. But they had been ordered by Kingsley and Aberfield to arrive sober, or there would be "consequences," as Aberfield ambiguously warned._

_But Aberfield was not enough of a threat for the Slytherins to take his words earnestly. Besides, the Slytherins relished in the aftereffects of a night consisting of getting crossed, and each one of them savored the look on Hermione's face as she struggled to comprehend the reality of the situation earlier that morning._

_Draco took immense pleasure in that image. She squirmed, cringed, and crumpled her russet eyebrows at him multiple times, and each movement was like a shot of heroin straight into his bloodstream._

_Exhilarating, arousing, practically pornographic to his eyes was the sight of Granger recoiling in disgust of him._

_He knew he nauseated her—that's what made it so fucking entertaining._

_"You're being a proper buzzkill, Blaise, you know that?" Pansy said, inhaling the contents of her own blunt and subsequently passing it to Theo, who took his own sweet time adjoining his plump lips upon it and drawing the mist into his eager mouth._

_"Fuck's sake, Pansy, I'm just saying that we should take it easy tonight," Blaise responded, furrowing his eyebrows in frustration. "Besides, do you honestly think you'll be able to do anything fun while stoned at Amortentia? It's not the same feeling and you know it."_

_"Blaise is right," Daphne chimed in, linking her arm underneath Blaise's and nestling her head into his broad shoulder. "Let's just have a relaxing evening here. My head hurts like a bitch."_

_Blaise, completely infatuated with Daphne and the twinkle in her aqua eyes as she gazed up at him, placed a kiss upon her golden locks, which smelled of lavender and violets._

_Pansy spitefully inhaled a gust of air through her nose and reflected upon the impulsive change in their routine. The thought of not indulging in the daily dose of hard drugs was unappealing, but as she leaned her left arm against Theo's crisscrossed legs, sprawling her torso across his lap and rolling on her back to stare up at him, she became enchanted and love-sick with the sight of Theo, sober and calm. It changed her._

_She gazed up at him, love painted in her eyes like they were beholding an artistic masterpiece beyond anything Michelangelo could've ever even imagined sculpting._

_Theo's eyes trailed down to connect with hers. Something about this position—Pansy looking up at him with those large, chocolate eyes—made him feel both flustered and aroused._

_The way she gazed at him, admired him—Merlin, he adored the fuck out of her._

_"C'mon, Pansy, stoned sex can be really pleasurable," Theo cooed, tapping his index finger against her perky nose. She giggled, enamored and bewitched by his cheeky sentiment._

_"I swear to Salazar, if you fuckers don't keep it quiet tonight, I will blow your door to pieces, Nott," Draco groaned, dropping his face into his hands and rubbing his eyes. "The fucking sounds you two make—"_

_"You're just jealous, Malfoy," Pansy slurred, and Draco felt his cheeks burn red with aggravation._

_"Hardly," Draco frustratingly responded, retrieving his blunt from the glass ash tray and inhaling its contents deeply. The cannabis did nothing to him—what he needed was an upper, something to speed up his heart rate. Fuck's sake, the weed barely did its job as a depressant. But he needed something—anything—in his system to distract himself from the hell he found himself in._

_"If the meeting gets really unbearable tomorrow," Adrian chimed in, "we can always pack a stash of something to take to drown out the monotony of Aberfield's voice."_

_And that's what they settled on. Show up sober but be prepared to ingest as many drugs as possible to endure the imminently painful seminar._

Draco fusses in his bed under the thin, grey duvet, his cold body tossing back and forth as his brain invents potential scenarios for tomorrow's meeting.

He pictures Aberfield standing at the front of a room, lecturing down at them as if he somehow knows everything about what they have been through. As if he can comprehend the pain they had to endure. He has no idea how far the extent of their trauma reaches. How the memories of those years under Voldemort cut through their bodies every day and every night, draining them of blood and life as time goes on.

Aberfield has no _fucking_ idea how hard it is. And he would never know. It didn't matter how much time Aberfield dedicated to devising his program, or how many former Death Eaters he spoke to, or how many books he read about the topic—he could never truly know their perpetual agony.

Most importantly, he doesn't have a mark on his arm, gnawing at the skin around it as if to torturously and sluggishly tear their bodies apart from the inside out. It has a mind of its own—it harbors feelings, intentions, and malevolent plans.

He could never fucking understand. Never.

And Draco pictures Granger taking notes, reading in the corner, passing out quizzes or surveys—whatever the fuck it is she would be doing there at the meeting. He sees her dressed in a brown, wool sweater with the collar of a white button-up poking out above the hem of the neckline, all tucked into a pair of straight, forest green pants, with her curly brown locks subdued in a low ponytail that rests upon the back of her neck.

He can see it now—her cheeks turning crimson as he toys with her by means of his callous glances, making her wince and shudder in uneasiness. Draco could play that image over and over again in his mind, and it would function the exact same way as any other upper.

That's the pill he wants to consume. If there was a capsule that could replay that image of Granger's face in his head like a slideshow for the rest of his life, he would take it in an instant. He'd wash it down with whiskey, mead, gin, forcing it down his throat if he had to.

The sight stimulates him, reminds him of his undeniable power over Granger.

Blood rushes to his—

_Woah. What the fuck?_

Draco feels a sharp pang bud beneath his lower stomach.

_Oh, for fuck's sake. Go to fucking sleep._

Adrian's soft breathing in the bed across the room echoes through Draco's acutely activated eardrums, and he tries desperately to disregard the revolting thoughts of Granger swimming in his mind. He represses them for as long as he can, begging his brain to disremember the stimulating image that seamlessly sends blood to his groin.

_Forget that pill. Forget it. Fucking forget it._

He uses Adrian's presence to inhibit the feeling, but the fucking image of Granger—the way she kneeled in front of him and administered the potion, her brown eyes widening in astonishment as he gripped the vial with his teeth—keeps reappearing in his line of imagination.

Granger. Kneeling in front of him.

_Fucking hell, get a grip._

Draco yanks one of the plush pillows out from beneath his head and slams it over his face, desperate to purge the nauseating feeling that buds in the pit of his stomach as it tries to descend even lower in his body. He is desperate to stop thinking about her. He'll think anything at this point to dispel her image. 

_She's a mudblood. A fucking_ mudblood.

His thoughts are interrupted by a chorus of familiar grunts and moans behind the wall to his right, coming from Theo's room.

_You have got to be fucking kidding me. At this fucking hour?_

Groaning in anger, Draco presses the pillow harder upon his head, crafting two mental reminders: blow Theo's door off its hinges in the morning with an Exploding Charm and stash a bag of cocaine in the pocket of his trousers for the impending seminar. Merlin knows he will fucking need it.

-

"They should be here any moment," Aberfield says, gazing down at his leather watch and inspecting the time: one minute before ten in the morning.

Hermione sighs, recalling the obscene words and images that Pansy described for her yesterday in Kingsley's office. About her... audacious morning routine. Promptness seemed like it was less than a priority to the group of Slytherins; Hermione fears that they won't even bother to show up. They had been so apprehensive and disgusted by the idea of a rehabilitation program yesterday.

Hermione braces herself for what she considers inevitable: they are just not coming.

Aberfield and Hermione had arrived a half hour ago to prepare for the first meeting of the F.D.E.R.E. Located on the fifth floor of the Ministry of Magic headquarters, the room which Aberfield procured for the meetings was several doors away from his own personal office. Although the level was dedicated to the Department of International Magical Cooperation, Aberfield used his ingenious and creative mind to create a subdivision of the department, which centered around wizard relations spanning across all blood statuses.

His position was self-created, and the idea stemmed from his ingenious and creative intellect; Hermione venerated his drive and vision to create a more inclusive wizarding world. It's what drew her to his office one day as she explored the Ministry on her first day of her initial internship, and ultimately drove her to switch departments and work for him. His mission spoke to her, having been heavily exposed to unpleasant interactions with wishes and wizards in her past.

Ironic that the one who created such a hostile environment for her is now forced to undergo a treatment program which she designed. 

The room was originally painted a dark blue, but Aberfield sensed that the dark color would emanate an unpalatable ambiance. He fancied something brighter and happier in order to create a more inviting environment. With the flick of his wand and the utterance of a few charms, the color of the wall morphed into a lovely eggshell hue.

The room was rather empty, though, save a circle of eight chairs and a long desk towards the back wall, stacked with papers and books which Aberfield intended to use for his forthcoming lessons. Hermione wished they could brighten the atmosphere even more with posters, paintings, or any sort of additional design, to create a scene that was not so dull and monotone; all too distracted by the content of the program, as well as being acutely aware of her lack of expertise in the sector of interior design, she flung the nonessential project to the back of her brain, reminding herself to see to it in the future if there was time.

"Maybe they're lost?" Aberfield suggests, a clear indication of sarcasm in his voice as he raises his right eyebrow and grins.

Hermione unveils a smile and releases a brief chuckle. Aberfield's lighthearted humor undeniably soothes her wavering nerves. Of course they're not lost—they're just late.

Another minute passes, then five, then ten, then fifteen. Aberfield and Hermione stand in silence, pacing around the room and uttering small sentences here and there to pass the time. Hermione checks her watch and the door compulsively. She notices every little sound outside the room, each time wondering if it is them.

At eighteen past the hour, the door finally opens.

Hermione is mid-pacing the room, swiveling through the red chairs and deep in thought when she hears the handle of the door click. Her head shoots up towards the entrance. The first person she sees is Blaise, who politely yet discreetly bows his head in her direction. Daphne follows close behind, her hand interlocked with Blaise's.

Following them is Adrian, who offers Hermione a cheeky wink, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth in tandem.

"Ahh, here you all are!" Aberfield exclaims, approaching the Slytherins with outstretched arms and a bright expression. "We were beginning to think you got lost."

"Believe me, we tried," Theo responds as he and Pansy walk through the door. "Lots of levels and rooms in this fucking building. But this one—" Theo points at Blaise, who takes a seat in one of the chairs— "insisted that he knew exactly where to go."

Aberfield laughs. "Let's be grateful for Mr. Zabini's keen eye, then."

The group settles into their seats, but Hermione is all too distracted by the figure standing menacingly in the threshold of the door, teetering between the hallway and the room. He rests there, leaning his arm against the frame of the door and crossing his right foot over his left. She observes his tattoos, covering his arms like a chaotic mosaic, each random tattoo a piece of the puzzle Hermione is determined to solve. His free hand is shoved into the pocket of his black trousers, and Hermione can slightly make out very subtle movements ensuing within his pocket, like his fingers are twirling something.

The intimidating contest between them begins as their eyes connect, dancing in an angry and coldhearted tango. The pressing question arises: who shudders first?

_I'm going to make your skin crawl, bitch._

"Don't leave us in anticipation, Mr. Malfoy," Aberfield says, gesturing his hand towards an open chair. As Draco's eyes shift to focus on Aberfield, Hermione finally acquires her freedom from his provocative gaze. Draco scoffs and enters the room, his black boots skidding against the carpet and creating a harsh sound, like muffled yet still unnervingly tantalizing nails on a chalkboard.

Hermione isn't off the hook yet. She despises that sound, and she is positive that Draco can sense her immense anxiousness in response to the mal intended noises. Her back is turned to him as he drags the last remaining empty chair out from the circle and drops into it. The agonizing sounds make her shoulders shudder.

_Checkmate, bitch._

"Glad we are all settled in," Aberfield says, taking a seat in between Draco and Daphne and leaning forward to rest his elbows against his knees. "Welcome, all of you, to the first day of your new life."

"Fuck's sake," Draco whispers under his breath, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest as if to reject Aberfield's greeting. A small creaking sound releases as a result of bending the bones of the chair. Draco grimaces, briefly catching Granger's uncomfortable and uneasy expression the moment the chair squeaks.

_Salazar, Merlin, fucking Voldemort from the grave—whoever it was that made sitting in this chair possible—bless you._

-

Their first lesson: the history of muggle-wizard relations.

"Muggle-wizard relations have always been quite complicated," Aberfield says, his eyes darting between the Slytherins as a means of properly engaging them in the discourse. Each of them harbors their own resentment to the lesson, feeling it to be incredibly simplistic and unnecessary. 

They had their opinions about muggles implanted in them by their families, and uprooting those sentiments would not take one measly lesson. 

Pansy conspicuously plays with a hangnail on her middle finger, and Theo practically puts on a cabaret performance as he rotates between cracking his knuckles, grinding his teeth, and sighing loudly. Adrian taps his slender fingers against his knee in a steady rhythm—were his taps off beat, Hermione would've lost her mind much earlier.

Daphne and Blaise seem to be the only ones paying any sort of attention, but there are occasional snickers that escape their mouths.

But nothing compares to the harrowing, excruciating sound of Draco's noisy chair. Any chance he gets to disturb Granger, he seizes with pleasure. The chair squeaks at the slightest movements, fostering an idyllic situation for tormenting Granger. Her face scrunches, eyebrows furrow, and lips quiver every single time he shifts forward, backwards, to the side, crosses his legs, or simply adjusts in the seat.

Heaven. Draco is in fucking heaven.

"While there has been substantial animosity between muggles and wizards in the past, it is our goal now to salvage the relationship and forge a healthier, more cooperative association with them." Aberfield takes a deep breath as he surveys the expressions of the group—their faces are plagued with utter disinterest. Not one of them tries to fake it anymore—not even Blaise or Daphne.

Hermione catches Aberfield's wandering eyes and smiles, offering the same reassurance and optimism he has often presented to her. He continues: "Do you all have any thoughts of what I have just presented?"

Silence. The room is as still as ice in below freezing weather. Nobody offers a response, a comment, or a question.

_Squeak._

Hermione cringes.

Draco grimaces.

Sighing in defeat, Aberfield concedes to the silence of the group. "Right, let's just take a short break, then. We will reconvene in a few minutes."

Before Aberfield can even finish his sentence, Draco shoots out of his seat and barges out the door, no doubt tired of listening to Aberfield drone on and on about the tumultuous history of muggles and wizards. It is clearly of no interest to him, and Hermione expected nothing less.

The sound of the creaking chair underneath Draco's weight replays over and over again within her mind. It echoes in her eardrums, distracting her from everything else. He... he just... he's such a...

Hermione observes a smirk form on Pansy's face as she watches Draco leave the room. Pansy leans over and whispers something in Theo's ear, subsequently earning a light chuckle from him.

Something within Hermione tells her to follow Draco.

So she does.

"I'll just be a minute," she tells Aberfield, whose head rests in his right hand perched atop his lap. Aberfield smiles and waves as she turns around and exits the room, feeling the eyes of the other Slytherins glued to her back.

She storms out of the room, her head turning left and right to scope out the sight of platinum blonde hair. Down the hallway to her left, Hermione watches as Draco pushes open the door to the bathroom. She huffs, wondering if it is really in her best interest to follow him.

She goes against her better judgement and charges through the hallway, fully intent on confronting him for his unprofessional and distasteful conduct. She'll curse him out if she has to. She'll take her wand and shove it straight into the skin of his neck if it means he will stop fucking with her.

Hermione resolves that she will put a stop to this nonsense before it goes any further.

Approaching the bathroom door, Hermione takes a deep breath, summoning any sort of spare confidence she harbors within her gut. She reaches her hand up to touch the door. Hesitates. Inhales again. Wishes for strength and wit as she prepares to engage in a battle royale.

She thrusts the door wide open and steps inside.


	6. Chapter 6

_Finally. Some peace and fucking quiet._

Draco has been dying to wrap his nostrils around some cocaine all day. 

He can't take his mind off of it. Ever since the Slytherins apparated and landed in the atrium of the Ministry for their first day of the program, it's all he can bloody think about. 

The group found themselves surrounded and suffocated by the bustling and overzealous employees who scurried like ants to their assigned posts. The clamorous sounds of the Ministry were deafening, the restless sights blinding. He felt disarranged and out of place—like a shark out of water.

And the way the ministry workers looked at them. It was like they _were_ sharks, like they would unremorsefully attack the employees any second with their sharp and thrashing canines. 

No. The employees looked at them even _worse_ than that. They glared at them like they were fucking urchins. Predators corrupting the precious sea floor that was the Ministry of Magic.

All Draco wanted was an upper. An escape. Some _fucking_ cocaine. Anything to drown out the looks he received, the whispers he heard, and the snarls and tuts from those who thought they were better than him.

_Fuck all of them. And fuck their lavatory._

_Hope they don’t mind me using it for my vices._

With his premeditated plans set in action in the privacy of the Ministry bathroom, Draco hastily removes a small, clear, plastic bag from the pocket of his trousers, his voracious eyes gleaming at the white powder inside of the pouch—taunting him, enticing him, causing his stomach to growl with hunger. He licks his lips as he quickly tugs the seal open, willfully enslaved to the drug and absolutely nothing else.

Brain swelling, pulse palpitating with anticipation of the cocaine conquering his bloodstream, Draco tips the open baggie over and slowly dispenses some of the powder across the side of his right index finger, wary not to spill it.

He’s had plenty of practice though, and he gracefully succeeds in drawing a perfectly straight line of cocaine of about two inches long across the tip of his long index digit. Just enough cocaine to make him feel a little less like everything around him is caving in, mercilessly dragging his body down into the sweltering core of the earth. Just enough to get him through these _fucking_ sessions.

If this is how these workshops are always going to be run, then _fucking hell,_ he’s going to need to force Adrian to contact his muggle supplier as soon as possible to restock their supply of drugs.

The image of the snow coating his equally pale skin is invigorating—finally, he can feel the sweet release and high of his favorite vice.

Not thinking twice, Draco swipes the contents right off his finger and into his nostril, and the powder shoots up his nose like a waterfall running in reverse. It hits the top of his head, and Draco inhales deeply, wanting to subsume every fucking grain of it.

For extra measure, Draco removes his wand from his back pocket. Aiming his hawthorn next to his head, the tip of the walnut tinted wood grazing his hair, Draco mutters an incantation to accelerate the speed of the drugs within him: _“Accelero momentum.”_

Immediately, he undergoes a gripping head rush. The drugs combust within his system and progress through his bloodstream, not sparing any part of his insides. Writhing through him, colonizing his insides, reaffirming its eternal, inevitable hold over him.

“What on earth are you doing, Malfoy?”

_Fucking hell._

Draco brusquely twists his head to the source of the shrill voice; Hermione stands between the threshold of the door and the hallway, staring at him, her corneas highlighted with a look of utter disbelief.

_Perfect. His favorite fucking image._

He hopes she saw every fucking moment of what he just did.

“Casting my fucking Patronus. What does it look like I’m doing?” he responds curtly.

Hermione’s eyes widen, ignoring his comment and entirely focusing her bulging eyes on the small bag that Draco holds between his lean fingers. She stutters, her mind reeling over the sight. “Is that—"

“Relax, Granger,” he slurs with a roll of his eyes, cramming the bag and wand back into his pocket. “Just a little something to take the edge off.”

Hermione fearlessly steps further into the bathroom and shuts the door behind her, much to Draco's antipathy. He scoffs and turns away from her to face the sink.

“Now, who invited you in here?” he sneers, glaring at his reflection in the mirror, tugging the golden knob of the sink marked with a carved ‘C,’ and plunging his hands under the rushing cold water. As the brisk water makes contact with his skin, he inhales sharply through his nose, the titillating sensations both below and upon his membrane merging in bliss and clouding his body in a state of utter euphoria.

Hermione huffs. Not one day into the program and Draco is already tormenting her in every way possible—with his attitude, his distasteful glances, and his relentless rocking in his squeaky chair that made her hair stand erect all over her body.

And he knew it, too. He knew he was getting under her skin.

He fucking loved it. Relished in the knowledge of it.

_The perfect pill. The capsule he wants to swallow more than anything._

Hermione takes a moment to compose herself. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.” She takes a cautious step forward, her small nude pumps clanging lightly against the white marble floor. “You ran out of the room rather abruptly.”

Draco spans his arms in the air like an eagle, droplets of water splattering across the counter to his left and the floor to his right. He drops his arms to the sides of his waist with a forced, unmistakably irritated _thud._ “I’m fucking fantastic, Granger. Can’t you tell? I’m having the time of my life being held here against my will, learning about some lackluster, trivial, degrading bullshit.”

“Degrading?” Hermione repeats, feeling her forehead insistently force her eyebrows down into a shocked slant.

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

She takes a deep breath, demanding every cell in her body to remain calm. Demanding herself to stay as unperturbed as possible.

“Honestly, Malfoy, it’s been one day. No—not even a day. It’s been just over an _hour._ How painful can this really be?”

A part of her hopes that he will just back off. Acknowledge that he is being petty and cruel for no apparent reason. But she casts that net into an empty sea, and his response is like a riptide that pulls back any sort of hope she has for civility between them. The ship has sailed, the tides steering it into open, unpredictable waters.

“ _Painful_ ,” he growls in response.

Exasperation builds within Hermione like stepping blocks, but it’s not as strong as her level-headedness. She huffs impatiently, squaring her shoulders and placing her hands on her hips. “I really think if you just opened yourself up to this process—”

“ _Process_ ,” Draco mimics. He rolls his eyes into the back of his head, and when they return to Hermione’s sight, she notices the silver augment is tainted, completely obliterated. A crimson tint begins to creep inwards from the edges of his eyes; like a hurricane, it swirls slowly in his pearls, and she can visibly see his irises undergo the strenuous influence of the storm within him.

He continues. “Please. That word is such a fucking joke. This is just a way for you to feel better about yourself and come out looking like some sort of postwar savior—”

“That… that’s not true—”

“Spare me, Granger.”

A beat.

They glare at one another in silence.

Draco’s words sting, tackle her soul with such force that her fists start to bunch in anger. She feels her nails dig into her palm— _breathe, Hermione._

Deep inside, she knows what’s true. She knows that her intentions are genuine. She knows that the reason she crafted this program with Aberfield was to help them—was to help _him. Draco._

And Aberfield—someone she looked up to with immense admiration—worked incredibly hard to develop this initiative, constantly pleading with members of the Ministry to hear his plan, consider granting clemency to the past Death Eaters, even going so far as to help _free_ the former Death Eaters from their cells in Azkaban under the guise that they learn, reflect, and become better people. It was jarring at first, but Kingsley conceded to the idea in the hopes that it would dispel the intense polarization within the Wizarding World. With the little experience he truly held in the Ministry, Aberfield was able to do all of that with such ease.

And it magnetized Hermione. Aberfield’s work ethic inspired her. His ardent desire for change in the Wizarding World stirred similar wishes within her. 

And it all started with that group of Slytherins.

It drew her in because she is forever haunted by the sights of them at Hogwarts during their sixth year. How they paced around the corridors, itching their arms, withdrawing themselves from any sort of social setting.

She remembers Draco most of all. The image of him has been impossible to forget.

Slouching and sulking in his misery, wandering the corridors of the splendid castle like a ghost, his eyes empty and dead, Draco’s once vivacious and competitive spirit had utterly subsided that year; he no longer vied for the spot of top student against Hermione. He had backslid into a dense, empty shell, and trivial matters such as the bestowment of chief student fell on his backburner.

And she even remembers entering the infirmary just a few days before Dumbledore’s death with the intent of discussing an ancient healing charm she stumbled upon in one of her leisure books with Madame Pomfrey, who was always willing to discuss such intriguing concepts with her. But instead of focusing on the question at hand, Hermione’s attention was entirely shifted to the desolate blonde lying in a cot at the back of the infirmary, his back turned to everyone, eyes glued to the stone wall. He lay alone in his bed, suffering the wounds cast by _her_ best friend.

He had not one friend or visitor of his own.

Others around him did. Hannah Abbott, with her broken arm wrapped in a sling, was surrounded by countless Hufflepuffs, and they were giggling and chatting loudly. A younger boy, had to be a first year, even had his friends crowding around his bed, pestering him about his unlucky encounter with a rather frazzled and scared owl in the Owlery. He pointed to the cuts on his arms and cheeks, delivered through the sharp talons of the bird, and his friends "ooh'd" and "ahh'd" at his battle scars. 

Yet Draco was alone.

Hermione considered approaching him that day in the infirmary. She didn’t know why. But something pulled her in his direction, just like it did yesterday when she rushed towards his practically lifeless body on the floor of Kingsley’s office. 

A tug. A rubber band. A magnet. Just as powerful now as it was then. Electrodes surging between their bodies, creating an enticing forcefield of energy between them. 

And as Madame Pomfrey explained the intricacies of the healing charm to her that day, Hermione found herself unable to remove her eyes from his cold, still body, wrapped under blankets like a butterfly imprisoned in his cocoon.

And now she stands feet away from him, and he hasn’t changed. His body is stilled surrounded by this tough shell, his heart the victim of a ravaging and unrelenting hurricane.

And he copes with drugs. He deals with the pain by triggering more pain.

A question pops in Hermione’s head, and before she can consider the repercussions of prodding into Draco’s personal life, she blurts it out:

“Why do you do it?”

Draco is dumbfounded; his head recedes, and his nostrils flare. “You’ve got to be a little more specific than that, Granger.”

“Why do you use… um… muggle drugs?”

Draco scoffs, stabbing the bottom of his lip with his dry tongue and shaking his head. His teeth grasp his bottom lip, and he tugs it inside his mouth, slowly releasing the fold in several seconds of tension-filled ambiguity. Staring at the ground, he willfully ignores her question.

Fearlessly, Hermione tries to recapture his sulking eyes with another query: “I just can't comprehend why someone like you wouldn't just use their magic, like you've always done. Why do you seek out these drugs in particular?"

Astounded by her incessant poking at his personal life, Draco swipes the sweaty palm of his hand over his face and drags down, pulling his skin with him and scratching at his chin.

The cocaine pulses beneath him.

“I don’t have to explain myself to you,” he says through his snarled lips, a curve so vicious and rotten it’s like he’s spitting venom at her.

“I just think if you let us help you—”

“Granger, read my _fucking_ lips.”

A tundra surrounds her, and she stiffens under the cold air. Frozen in spot, as if ice has sprouted from the ground and encapsulated her feet in an array of crystals, planting her firmly to the marble floor, her breath hitches as Draco starts to step towards her.

And as he menacingly approaches her and invades her space, she feels her heart fasten, clench, and wound itself tightly within her chest, like a snake is coiling its way around her most precious organ.

He leans forward, his face only a foot away from her now. And he delivers a sour response: “None of us want your _fucking_ charity. Never fucking have, never fucking will.”

Hermione bites the inside of her cheek, words of insult gushing through her mind, fully intent on spilling out of her quivering mouth in a colorful array of jabs and snubs.

_Impossible. A lost cause. A waste of time._

_That’s what he is._

_Why do I waste my time?_

Clearing her throat, the reason for all this trouble returns: _they deserve to have someone care about them._

She concedes. “I suppose it can’t be forced.”

Draco snarls, reveling in his apparent victory.

“But you should know this,” Hermione continues, leaning her face towards his and digging up a source of confidence deep within her, bringing it to fruition in a moment of tense confrontation. “You can stand here and numb your body with whatever substances you please. But I can assure you that the pain you feel—and it’s obvious you feel it, otherwise you wouldn’t be subjecting yourself to these drugs—will never subside unless you suck up your pride and ask for some bloody support.”

They glare at one another. Draco’s look could cut steel, but Hermione’s could cut graphene. Could slice right through the honeycomb lattice of the most powerful, stable atoms known to man. 

And as Draco opens his mouth to offer a rebuttal, counterattack her unsolicited perceptions about him, Hermione spins on her heels and storms out of the bathroom, the crystals of ice around her feet melting away in the warmth of her colossal surge of confidence. The door crashes behind her, and she exhales in relief in the hallway, acknowledging a few straggling Ministry workers with a nod as she charges back to the room.

Draco stands fixed in the bathroom, his face hot with ire and his fingers tingling with a rush of adrenaline.

_She doesn’t know anything. Fuck her. Fuck her. I don’t need anyone’s help. I’m fucking fine._

He truly tries to convince himself of these things.

His body tenses and hardens, sickened by the recent encounter with Granger, shaking with anger at the way she reversed the playing field, crawling up into his skin and corrupting the cocaine’s process. Wishing that the drugs would work double time to counteract this new feeling, Draco inhales deeply and subjects himself even deeper to the powder, feeling a snowstorm brewing beneath his skin and around his blood.

The high is undoubtedly exciting, but it appears that fighting with Granger is heavily intoxicating.

And he wishes for nothing more than to be inebriated for the rest of his life.

-

“Oh for fuck’s sake... try the door again, Maverick!”

Maverick’s wand flicks in the direction of the bathroom door, the embers glowing from the tip and providing a small ounce of light to the dark, dim alcove of Amortentia. The violet sparks bounce off of the metal handle, and he reaches another time for the knob. Upon touching the metal, a spark of electricity shocks his skin; his hand jolts back, and he shakes it in midair, hoping somehow to dispel the voltage from his body and mind.

“Fuck, Bernard! It won’t unlock!”

“Must be those bloody kids charming the door again,” Bernard groans. He impatiently approaches the door and pounds his fist against the white plaster. “Oi! You crazy fuckers better wrap it up in there!”

A voice comes from inside: “Fuck off, mate!”

Stunned, Bernard recoils and gasps at the curt response of the person inside the bathroom; the reply is then followed by several over-exaggerated, sensual moans from another lighter, higher, likely female voice.

“The nerve of those—”

“Titus! Titus, sir,” Maverick exclaims, spotting the beloved owner of Amortentia as he trudges through the crowd of sweaty bodies dancing upon his floor, offering pleasant and wholesome “hellos” to his treasured clients. Upon hearing his name called over the loud bass of the music, Titus Cromwell apprehensively approaches the two guards with a raised eyebrow. “Titus,” he continues, “we have a problem. Guests have been complaining that there are people hogging the bathroom.”

“It’s those kids in there again having—”

“Please, no need to finish that sentence, Bernard. I’ll take care of this; thank you gentlemen,” Titus responds, lifting a hand and shooing them away. Bernard and Maverick look at one another questionably.

“You don’t want us to take care of this?” Bernard asks, reaching for his wand.

Titus shakes his head with a grin, the look on his face denoting the regularity of the situation.

The guards glance at one another again; unwilling to deal with the situation further, they reenter their posts surrounding and guarding the dark interior of Amortentia. 

Titus sighs and rubs his eyebrows, preparing himself for the confrontation.

He raises his hand and knocks against the door, yelling half-heartedly into the small opening between the door and the frame:

“Nott!”

A beat. Then, a voice, light and airy with a tang of pleasure. “Ti-tus!” it sings from within the bathroom. “What can I do you for, my friend?”

“Theodore Nott! For fuck’s sake, you have three more minutes in there, you hear me? I’ve got people complaining that they need to relieve themselves!” Titus yells back.

“Titus, come on! I’m kind of in the middle of something here!” Theo’s cheeky voice calls out.

“Three minutes or I will blow the door down!” Titus counters.

Inside the bathroom, Theo has Pansy propped up on the granite platform of the sink. Pansy’s tight, black, satin dress is bunched up at her waist, allowing total access to her core. Her long legs are straddled around Theo's bare waist, and their hips are shoved against one another, joined together in a moment of sweet, euphoric, sexual pleasure.

Hearing Titus’ command, Theo pauses his thrusting and drops his head into the nook between Pansy’s neck and shoulder, taking in her regal scent, groaning into her soft skin, and biting down lightly in the hopes that he generates a sweet squeal from her mouth. She yelps at the nip and subsequently laughs, throwing her head back in pleasure. Theo laughs with her, their voices merging in the hot, sweaty bubble of pleasure they’ve created.

“Alright, Titus, calm your tits! We’ll be out in one minute!” Theo calls back with a smile.

“One minute?” Pansy asks cheekily, throwing her head forward and smacking her lips against Theo’s neck, sucking wildly, marking his throat with her red bitemarks, her tongue and teeth working together to paint constellations on his olive skin. “Don’t you want to fuck me for a _little_ bit longer, Nott?”

“Fuck, Parkinson. You make it so hard to resist you,” Theo mutters, rolling his neck around so Pansy can trace her wet tongue across his throbbing skin, right atop where his neck veins pulse with the beat of his heart. The drag of her tongue across the vein sends signals straight down to his heart, and his chest throbs with a burning desire for her, an earnest longing for this moment to never end.

“You know better than anyone else that that's not the only thing I know how to make hard,” she slurs upon his neck.

Theo moans and shivers; finding himself completely trapped under her spell, enchanted by her seductive nature, he cranes his head towards the door to readjust his terms. “ _Two_ minutes, Titus!”

In a second, Pansy reaches out and yanks his chin back towards her, smacking her lips back against his. They continue their dance, lips pulsing and bodies converging in a series of fluid, flawless movements. Theo rocks in and out of her, and they both mutter profanities and see the white light of a climax behind the darkness of their closed eyes, nestled on the horizon of their eyelids.

The rush of the cocaine in their system mixed with the oxytocin released from their brains sends them straight to euphoria; nothing around them exists, not even the pounding of Titus' fist against the door, as they simultaneously unravel for one another.

Outside the bathroom, in the epicenter of the club, the capital of lust and desire, the Slytherins dance the night away as usual, crossed between bottomless shots of alcohol and vigorous amounts of cocaine.

Daphne and Blaise are in a planet of their own, reveling in the closeness of their bodies and the pounding of the bass below their feet. It electrifies them, pumping their love for one another up their feet, through their bodies, and out their mouths as they press their lips together, kissing on the dance floor for everyone to see. They share their energy, happiness, and love with one another, all stemming from the heartbeat of the club as it pulses below their feet.

Blaise is in heaven with Daphne. He wishes he could remember this moment forever, but he knows the drugs will likely cause his memory to fade tomorrow. But he considers a strategy for holding onto this memory for just a little longer: maybe his brain will open up just enough for it to make space for this image of Daphne, wrapped around him, her glorious smile shining in the emerald lights of the club, and the glitter on the corner of her eyes twinkling with iridescent glows.

 _Remember this,_ he tells himself. _Remember this when it hurts. Let this image seep into your mind._

His head obeys his conscience. The doors of his mind swing open to bait and ingest this picture. This moment. This woman.

Across the club, as Draco feverishly engages in his usual unintentional rendezvous with a random woman, his body pressed upon hers with her back against a wall, a similar yet distorted thought runs through his mind. While his knee separates her legs, and the girl moans into his mouth as he kneads his thigh against hers, Draco lets the thought enter his head and surround his conscience:

_Remember this when it hurts._

He kisses the woman more, their lips swollen from the rough plucking and biting that occurred over the last few minutes. She moans into his mouth, her warm breath tainted with cinnamon-flavored liquor coating the inside of his mouth like a fog. And Draco bites her lip in return, reveling in her moan and subsequent hiss of pleasure.

And then, another voice.

_The pain you feel will never subside unless you suck up your pride and—_

Suddenly, the breath of the woman is poisonous, befouled by the ring of Granger's words. 

Draco chokes and pulls away abruptly, desperately trying to repress his thoughts, the sound of Granger’s interventionist voice resounding in his ears.

“Why’d you stop?” the woman whines, gripping the folds of his white button-up and tugging him back towards her, eager for him to continue. Draco grits his teeth, disgust inhabiting his body without permission. He pushes himself off of the girl and turns away without an explanation, staggering into the center of the dance floor amidst the focal point of the bright lights.

His body shakes under the influence of the cocaine, writhing through him without mercy.

_Fucking bitch. That’s the second god damn time she's slithered her way into my head—_

Draco furiously huffs, attempting to dispel the fog, the thought of her, her words from his mind.

Trapped in those sessions, Granger owned his mornings, creeping into and disrupting his life in a sudden and abrupt manner. But he’d be _damned_ if she’d take over his fucking nights as well. The only times he can release the pressure in his body, the overarching thoughts of desolation and bleakness bruising his mind.

It had been a week. A week, and Draco can’t get those fucking words from the bathroom out of his head.

_No. Fuck this. Granger doesn’t own me._

With a few slaps to his red cheeks to revitalize himself, Draco shakes out his limbs and scours the crowd for Adrian. He’s not difficult to find; even under the influence of the gushing cocaine, sticking onto his veins and blood cells and meticulously working his body into a state of euphoria, Draco is able to locate Adrian. Adrian is a giant in the crowd, his towering body only growing larger as he jumps in the air, pumping his fist and reveling in his own high.

Draco rushes towards his friend and throws himself into his broad chest, and the two scream and shout as if they haven’t seen in each other in years.

“Alright there, Malfoy?” Adrian yells, throwing his arm over Draco’s shoulder and jerking him into his side for a hug. Draco’s arm wraps around Adrian’s back, his hand resting and gripping down on his opposite shoulder. Fingers pressed deeply into his skin, curling around the sphere of Adrian’s shoulder bone just atop his humerus, Draco shakes the side of his body in vivacious enjoyment.

“Fan-fucking-tastic, Pucey!” Draco shouts, sticking his tongue in the air and wildly consuming the aroma of the club, swallowing the atmosphere as if to absorb the energy of everyone else in Amortentia.

“Good! Enjoy this, you wanker! Enjoy our freedom!” Adrian shouts back, throwing his head into the air with Malfoy and howling like a wild wolf.

And they dance and jump around, the cocaine driving their uninhabited spirits through the ether of the club.

Draco resolves that he doesn’t need to change. He doesn’t need a rehabilitation program. This is it for him. Here, with his friends, soaking in each pleasurable vice the world has to offer him.

And tomorrow, when he wakes up, begins his withdrawal, and makes his way to the ministry for those pathetic fucking lessons, he’ll no doubt have those exact same thoughts.


	7. Chapter 7

_Oh, fuck. Daphne is going to be sick. She's going to hurl any fucking second._

Draco can see it. Beneath Daphne's emaciated and bony figure there is vomit forming, coalescing, preparing to eject itself straight out of her chapped, cherry lips. Daphne presses her chipped nails into her palms, desperate to conceal the intense agitation festering in her gut. And her snowy, pale skin loses its pink tint with each passing second, and Merlin those seconds pass with such sluggish speed.

Draco is unsure whether time moves so slowly because of the hazy effects of his daily withdrawal or because Aberfield is simply the most mind-numbingly insipid person he's ever had to listen to.

Regardless, he unquestionably knows one thing: Daphne's going to throw up.

Right here, in the middle of the carpet, during this stupid fucking seminar.

Draco chuckles to himself, imagining the ways in which the scene could unfold. He envisions chaos, disorder, and the panicky look on Aberfield's face as his boring lecture is interrupted by the wrench of Daphne's cataclysmic withdrawal—it's all quite compelling and entertaining to think about.

Most compelling is Granger's inevitable squirming expression. He can see it now: her bended eyebrows, her pursed lips, her hand shooting straight up to cover her mouth and nose to conceal the stench. Maybe her fingers will wrap around the bottom of her seat as she braces herself, her digits curling with anxiety at the untimely and unpleasant sight. Maybe she won't be able to handle it, and she'll have to make her own beeline for the door.

And Draco could just sit back and watch it unfold, a smirk drawn across his face the entire time.

Inching closer and closer to the moment of fruition, Daphne rocks back and forth lightly in her chair. Lucky for Granger, this seat does not make a sound, otherwise Draco would have been reveling in two things. Daphne's lips tremble, totally disposed to open at any moment, allowing whatever is inside her body to be violently expelled.

As Aberfield continues to drone on and on about... whatever fucking boring subject he decided to torture the group of Slytherins with today, all Draco can focus on is Daphne, practically about to combust.

Blaise's fingers rub circles around Daphne's back as an act of consolation. His digits harbor a special power, shooting sparks through Daphne's lower back to try to counter the uncompromising withdrawal. The hands of a healer—his friends call it—caught up in a never-ending cycle of drug abuse and dejection from society. Were he able to truly utilize his natural tendencies, Blaise could be a truly effective healer in the Wizarding World. 

But he sits in this room, subjected to this rehabilitation program, with only an idea of what his life could be.

Who would want a healer with a faded Dark Mark, anyway?

As Blaise's worried eyes dart between the Slytherins, beckoning someone to say something, Draco leans back deeper into his chair, his tongue flicking the roof of his mouth as he awaits the glorious moment of chaos unfolding. He loves his position as a bearer of mayhem, deliverer of anarchy in his otherwise dull world. It's almost as exhilarating as his other favorite highs—the drugs and, of course, Granger's flustered face whenever he does something to make her nervous.

The Slytherins continue to exchange nervous glances, all conscious of what is about to happen, wondering who will speak up—who will be the one to disclose to Aberfield that his lesson is so painstakingly boring that Daphne is going to hurl.

Seated directly to his left, Hermione catches Blaise's eyes for a split second.

He locks their eye contact, pleading with a desperate glance, practically begging her with his irises to use her power to interrupt Aberfield.

Hermione can read his expression clearly. She shifts in her seat, opening her mouth to warn Aberfield of Daphne's precarious condition. She urgently needs an antidote, water—anything to help counter her withdrawal. But with Daphne sitting directly to his left, consequently masked in his peripheral vision, Aberfield has no sense of what Daphne is going through.

To make matters worse, Aberfield is completely wrapped up in today's topic of discussion: Voldemort's rise to power.

"You see, Voldemort's message attracted many kinds of people. It fascinated distinguished wizarding families, who were content on keeping the magical world separate from muggles and punishing anyone who mingled with muggles; giants, werewolves, any sort of dark creatures who felt disenfranchised and ignored by the ministry were also heavily influenced by his message. The list goes on."

_Holy fuck,_ Draco meditates, _does he ever stop fucking talking?_

Hermione opens her mouth again to say something, but Aberfield is so entrenched in hearing his own voice that he relentlessly continues his lecturing:

"Witches and wizards became attached to Voldemort and his message, promoting their ideologies all over Britain and even internationally. But—and this is the really compelling part that has kept witches and wizards fascinated by this recent history—what's most striking about Voldemort's support base is not just the kind of people who aligned themselves with him, but the way in which he was able to _control_ them, get them to see his way with such ease. He spoke to them without ever having to physically speak to them. He was a demagogue, saying anything and everything to compel magical folks to concur with him. And they did! People resonated with his message. It was quite astounding how Voldemort was able to—"

"Aberfield," Theo finally interjects, leaning over his knees and pointing his clasped together fingers towards Daphne, "I don't know how it is that you could be this unobservant, but Daph is literally going to hurl any fucking second."

On cue, Daphne's stomach lurches; she gags, catching the acidic liquid in her mouth.

Without thinking, but with keen perception, Hermione quickly whips out her wand from the deep pocket of her grey, plaid blazer, aiming it at a small wastebin nestled in the corner of the room.

" _Accio!_ " she calls out.

The bin soars through the air and straight into Hermione's hands; in one fluid motion, she launches herself towards Daphne and shoves the bin right below her engorged mouth. Daphne subsequently fastens her shaking hands around the rim of the bin and lowers her head into the hole. She retches into it.

Hermione's shoulders tense at her proximity to the victim of immense projectile vomiting, but she remains glued to her side, supporting the bin between her own quivering hands. Blaise quickly collects Daphne's sunkissed hair in his left hand, his right hand continuing to rub her back. He whispers to her quietly, "It's okay, Daph. You're going to be alright."

With a front row view of the scene, Draco smirks at the way Hermione's shoulders tense, at the way her body flinches as it impulsively reacts to Daphne's heaves.

But he smirks especially at the way he knows that he is about to inflict more havoc on the room.

"Fucking hell, Daph," Draco groans. "Couldn't have even muttered a quick Resigno to hold back the vomit? Now it fucking wreaks in here."

"Oh shut up, Malfoy," Blaise hisses, his eyes red with irritation, his skin flaring with ire.

"Well, am I wrong?" Draco retorts. "She's the only one of us that can't control herself in the mornings."

As Draco snarls, he reaps a tense shoulder roll from Blaise, as well as a look that could do more damage than an Unforgiveable.

"Blaise, it's alright. He doesn't mean it," Adrian says coolly, leaning forward on his knees and holding one hand up towards Blaise, and the other in front of Draco, who sits just to his right, attempting to diffuse the situation before it escalates.

"You know what? I'm sick of his attitude," Blaise says, turning back to face Draco, who sits directly opposite of him in the circle. "You think any of us complain when you stumble around the apartment fucked out of your mind, Malfoy? When you throw shit around the apartment during one of your drug-induced temper tantrums? Huh? Have some fucking sympathy, you absolute arsehole."

Draco's face turns beet red.

Hermione watches Draco's facade crumble right before her eyes, unfold in a nail-biting yet rapid pace. His jaw is clenched, and his cheekbones are so sharp that they could practically cut through stone. Something about what Blaise said combusts in his mind, setting him off like a fiendfyre curse.

And as his name suggests, Draco opens his mouth and spits out ravenous, blazing flames:

"Fuck off, Zabini. This happens all the fucking time. And it's exhausting. Daph, get ahold of yourself, for fuck's sake."

"Draco, just relax," Pansy says, reaching her hand out to her right to touch Draco's arm, calm him down, revert the anger building within his own gut. Draco jerks his arm away immediately and scoffs at the sentiment.

"Alright—hang on—everybody just take a deep breath—" Aberfield stutters, slowly realizing that he is losing control over what is slowly morphing into a group dynamic that resembles a pack of mercurial, temperamental wolves.

"What's your problem, Draco?" Pansy scowls, shaking her head. "Why are you being such an arsehole right now?"

Draco scoffs. "Shut the fuck up and leave me alone, Parkinson, alright?"

" _What_ did you just say, Malfoy?" Theo asks, leaning over his knees and jerking his head to the left to confront Draco, who sits two seats over just beside Pansy.

Draco folds his arms over his chest, and the way he scoffs sounds like a proper death wish. "I told her to shut the fuck up—"

Immediately, Theo lunges himself out of his chair and at Draco.

"Hey—whoa! Nott!" Adrian shouts, leaping after him and wrapping his massive arms around Theo's torso, pushing his back to his side of the circle. Pansy simultaneously jumps into action as well, helping Adrian force Theo back towards the edge of the circle. Draco stands up, stretching his hands forward and taunting him with his beckoning fingers.

"Come on, Nott! You want to punch me? You want to knock me out? Go for it!" Draco jeers.

"Fuck you! Don't ever talk to her like that again, you understand me?" Theo shouts.

"Oh fuck you, Nott!" Draco bellows, tossing his arms in the air.

"Alright, that's enough!" Aberfield shouts.

It's chaos. Utter pandemonium. Adrian and Pansy frantically struggle to constrain Theo from beating Draco to a bloody pulp, Hermione and Blaise comfort Daphne's trembling body as she continues to hurl into the wastebin, Draco unremittingly provokes every single person in the room with his taunts and jeers, and Aberfield desperately attempts to regain authority in a room full of rageful wizards.

"Daphne, are you doing okay?" Hermione asks, the sounds of the commotion unfolding right behind them.

Daphne nods, and Hermione observes her eyes swell with tears. Daphne squeezes them shut, her eyelids shutting the scene she has caused out of sight. As Blaise continues to soothe her with his words, an exhausted sigh escapes his mouth, confirming Hermione's suspicions—this must happen often.

Honestly, Hermione has no idea where the turmoil came from. It's like the argument was pulled out of a void—completely inorganic, seemingly artificial and synthetic. Or maybe, Hermione considers, it is profoundly entrenched in their tumultuous relationships, so embedded in them that when it does come to fruition, it explodes and generates a surge of anger within each Slytherin that appears to have been repressed for far too long. Maybe this is completely representative of how dysfunctional, broken, and tired this group of friends truly is.

Sick of the unrestrained anarchy, Aberfield whips out his wand and yells a critical spell: " _Silencio!_ "

Suddenly, the room falls completely silent. Disrupting the unbridled chaos, everyone finds their lips to be sealed shut, Hermione included. The physical altercations cease as the victims of Aberfield's spell become bothered with inspecting and touching their sewed-together lips. Everyone turns to face Aberfield; with restricted use of their mouths, the shock manifests in their eyes.

"Now, if you all don't mind—"

Unexpectedly, Daphne starts to make gargling sounds as the vomit coalesces in her throat with nowhere to go. Her face turns red and then purple, and her cheeks and eyes bulge underneath the steady buildup of pressure. 

Hermione frantically points to Daphne, her eyes pleading with Aberfield what her mouth can only muffle: _She's going to choke on her own vomit! Let her go!_

Realizing his blunder, Aberfield quickly releases the effects of the spell on Daphne, and she immediately expels all the built-up bile straight into the wastebin. The sound of vomiting fills the otherwise silent room; everyone cringes, even Aberfield.

"Merlin—my apologies, Daphne." Aberfield faces the rest of the silenced witches and wizards. "As for the rest of you, you cannot under any circumstances have outbursts like this! Control yourselves, or I'll be forced to use other repressive measures!"

Simultaneously, Draco and Theo flip Aberfield off.

Aberfield sighs defeatedly. "Thank you for that. Glad to see you two can agree on _something._ Now, if you'd like, I _can_ keep you all silent for the rest of this meeting. Is that what you want?"

It takes only a second for them to reach a consensus; everyone shakes their heads.

"That's what I thought. Now, I'm going to release this spell. But—believe me—if one of you opens your mouth in a disrespectful way again, there will be consequences. Is that understood?"

As everyone nods, Hermione makes sure to observe Draco's expression. With his mouth sewed shut, access to his emotions through his eyes is the only possible method of deduction. She can see that there is something mixed with anger beneath his raging beads—guilt, maybe? A sliver of remorse for the turmoil he has caused?

No. She's wrong. There's no remorse. There's just ire. Unadulterated, pure ire.

Why she even bothers searching for anything other than anger in him is beyond reason. She'll never understand her infinitesimal fascination with Draco—why she has always felt the need to know exactly how he feels.

" _Finite._ "

Upon being released from the spell, everyone exhales and catches their breath.

"Now, if you all will please take a seat—"

Draco doesn't wait around. With determined steps, he breaks through the threshold of the circle and storms towards the door.

"Mr. Malfoy!" Aberfield calls out, impatience coinciding with the way he spews his words.

It's unlike anything Hermione has ever witnessed from Aberfield. He is usually collected and unruffled, but Draco's scene has flipped a switch, triggered the breakdown of a section within Aberfield that is filled with intolerance and exasperation.

Aberfield used _magic_ against them.

Draco stops in the threshold of the door between the hallway and the room; he turns around and pops his middle finger up again, staring Aberfield dead in the eyes when he illustrates his unremitting anger.

In a moment, the door forcefully slams shut behind Draco.

Adrian sighs and steps forward, patting Aberfield's shoulder. "I can go check on him."

Aberfield nods with an exasperated sigh, and as Adrian trudges to the door, his eyes connect with Hermione's. Adrian playfully rolls his eyes at her; it is that moment of light-heartedness after the boisterous disturbance that causes the immeasurable tension within Hermione's body to slightly subside. 

Theo pants with anger, and Pansy has her arms wrapped around his waist, begging him to relax.

"I hate when he does that. I fucking hate it," Theo mutters, shifting positions around Pansy and wrapping his arm around the front of her waist. She pats his heaving chest with sedative touches, swaying his tense lungs to release oxygen, his tense shoulders to dispel their concealed pressure, and his gritted teeth to slacken in his mouth. 

Hermione clears her throat, feeling that tug once again compel her body to follow Draco, her desire coupled with the mischievous look which Adrian offered her moments ago. "I... I think I should go too," she says to Aberfield.

Conceding to the aftermath of the chaos by collapsing into his chair, Aberfield nods and gestures his hand to the door. Hermione turns back to Daphne and pats her knee. "Will you be alright?"

"Yeah. I'm alright, Granger," she responds softly. As Hermione rises to leave, she feels Daphne's frail hand wrap around hers. "Thanks," Daphne whispers. As one of her hands clutches tightly onto Hermione's, the other continues to grasp the wastebin with intense fervor, like she'll lose herself all over again in the withdrawal the second she lets go of either anchor.

Hermione squeezes Daphne's hand, then releases and strides towards the door.

As Hermione steps out into the hallway, she feels a rush of anxiety breathe down her back. She fears another confrontation, another pointless conversation, another empty attempt to console her peer.

Her eyes dart left and right in search of Adrian and Draco. She doesn't have to look for long; with Adrian's towering height and Draco's platinum blonde hair coupled with the sleeves of tattoos running up his arms, Hermione easily spots the two boys nestled towards the end of the hallways directly to her right, meeting at a junction with another perpendicular corridor. Behind them, dozens of ministry workers bustle through the hallway, occasionally glancing at Adrian and Draco with perplexed and muddled looks.

Sharks out of water.

Draco fumes as he stands across from Adrian. His face is red, and he furiously scratches his chin. Adrian speaks to him earnestly with a hand on his shoulder, attempting to calm him down. When Draco's itching becomes erratic, Adrian reaches forward, grabs his unsteady hand, and yanks it down to his side.

In his peripheral, Draco notices Hermione lingering, watching, scrutinizing his movements. He does a double take, groans, and throws his head back to the ceiling with his mouth wide open in a guise of complete annoyance.

Hermione clenches her jaw, feels a towering sense of uneasiness rush over her body.

_You're doing this for them. You're doing this for him._

"Fuck's sake, Granger, you just can't leave me alone for two bloody minutes, can you?" Draco calls out, slamming his free hand against the wall of the hallway and leaning against the tiles. Adrian turns around, releasing Draco's hand and staring at Hermione's frozen body.

Hermione reaches deep within her and retrieves her harbored confidence. She inches closer to Adrian and Draco. "I just wanted to—"

"Make sure I'm okay," Draco interrupts. "Right. I've heard that before. Will this be a recurring thing between us, then?"

"Only if you give me a reason for it to continue."

They stare at one another, the air between them boiling with the remnants of their repartee.

"Right. Well, like I told you last time, I'm fine. I don't need someone like you to check on me," he says, crossing his arms over his chest. Hermione's eyes can't help but travel down to inspect the tattoos on his arm, painted across his pale skin like an overpainted yet totally starved canvas, desperate for more and more ink to satiate its hunger. The tattoos are unsystematic, as if the outside reflects the inside—complete disorder and disarray. She tries to make out any sort of tattoo she can, but they all coalesce together in a jumbled masterpiece on his arms, scaling up and across his chest, which pops out just behind his slightly unbuttoned white Oxford.

"Draco, please. I just want to help—"

Draco scoffs and rolls his eyes before she can finish speaking and walks back the way they came, past the room where everyone else remains and into the bathroom several feet away.

She doesn't know which word it is she used that triggered him most: "help" or "Draco."

Adrian clears his throat and snorts. "Wonderful, Granger. You really have a knack at bringing out an exorbitant amount sunshine within him."

Hermione turns to face Adrian, whose face is beaming with joy, as if the last five minutes have somehow brought him incalcuable elation.

"He just..." she exhales, trying to calm the ire that rushes in her blood. "Look, I... I understand this is probably awkward for you all, but—"

"Oh, nothing gets past you, darling."

Hermione's eyebrows furrow. "I'm really just trying to help here, Adrian."

Adrian exhales, stroking his lean fingers through his shiny, chocolate hair. "We know, Granger," he answers sincerely. "Deep down, we know. It's just that some people want the help more than others."

"Like you?" Hermione asks with a hint of hope.

Adrian chuckles and crosses his arms over his broad chest. "More like Blaise. I think he's getting tired of all of this—of seeing Daphne in that terrible state. Sick of watching her go through that."

"Is he also getting sick of your... nightly ritual?"

Adrian cocks one eyebrow and laughs at her comment. "Fuck, Granger, you're making us sound like we're in some sort of cult."

She chuckles, realizing how ridiculous that word sounded. "Sorry... your... nightly endeavors?"

Adrian chuckles again, and the melodious sound lifts the lingering tension right out of the air and into the atmosphere, as if it never existed in the first place. "Interesting word choice. Although I suppose you've always been quite good at that."

"Good at what?"

Adrian shrugs and raises his eyebrows. "Constructing sentences with..." he pauses, a look of discernment crossing over his face. "Immeasurably ostentatious terminology."

The smile that creeps on Hermione's face is compulsive; once again, her tension is alleviated by Adrian's pleasant and playful attitude. "Right, of course."

There's a pause, and Hermione uses the time to study Adrian's features. She's never really taken into account his intrinsic beauty. The dip of his cheeks and the cut of his jaw could have been chiseled from the purest marble by the most elite sculptors of all time. He possesses eyes like emerald glass, but they are nestled within rather hollow chambers; she assumes the wear and tear his body undergoes every time he engages with the drugs is the reason for this. Yet even though they are engulfed in the deep concave of his sockets, his eyes are completely breathtaking, mesmerizing, capable of revealing a story she is dying to know—one she never truly engaged in while they were at Hogwarts together.

In a split moment, she notices a sparkle flash across his eyes, and suddenly they appear whole again.

And she wonders why he'd want to make them so hollow in the first place.

"So you... you don't want to stop, then?"

"Stop... what? Doing muggle drugs?" Adrian asks.

Hermione nods, but she harbors an instinctive concern that Adrian will reproach her question the same way that Draco did when she asked him a similar query in the bathroom just a few weeks prior.

"Of course not. What's the fun in stopping?" he responds with a smirk. "It's all we have anyways."

She exhales a brief sigh of relief, elated that Adrian hasn't scolded her, but simultaneously distracted by his vague response. "All you have?"

Adrian catches his tongue, pursing his lips to stop himself from sharing something he might regret. "Ah... nevermind."

"Adrian, you can talk to me. Truly. I mean... is that why you're holding so much resentment about this program? Is it about how it's called a 'rehabilitation' effort?" Hermione pushes.

Adrian visibly tenses at the word.

Realizing the way that her intensity affects him, Hermione recoils and shakes her head, wishing she had stopped her clearly over-stepping inquisition earlier. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to pry, but I just—"

"It's alright, Granger." Adrian looks down at his shoes and clears his throat. "I think this program is just hitting us all different. I mean, you've seen how Malfoy feels about it. We all just want to put these marks behind us. Him the most, though. He just doesn't want to admit it."

_Draco wants to put the mark behind him._

"If he does, then why won't he let us help him? Aberfield has some really wonderful ideas—"

"When has Malfoy ever been one to ask for help?" Adrian asks. "He'll never ask for it, Granger. Never."

"Well... will you? Will you ever ask for help?"

Adrian freezes, biting down on his lip. "I'm not sure."

Hermione clears her throat, cautious with the way she delivers the next sentence: "Well, I'm here for you. Should you... you know... need anything."

Adrian produces a small smile, the curve of his plump lips a sign that puts Hermione in an eased state. "I doubt I will. The only way to get through something like this is with the drugs."

There is a brief moment of silence as Hermione reflects on the severity of the statement.

They're all dependent on these substances. Hermione wonders if they'll ever escape their captivity to the drugs. If they'll ever rely on other sources of pleasure and support.

"Have you ever engaged in... oh, what'd you just call it, nightly endeavors?" Adrian asks cheekily. 

"What? Muggle drugs?" Hermione clarifies.

"Yes, Granger. 'Muggle drugs.' I mean—Salazar's sake—you look like you could use something to ease your tension."

She huffs and shakes her head. "No, I haven't."

He laughs. "Alright. How about this. The day you take me up on some drugs is the day that I take you up on your... 'advice.' About my situation. How does that sound, Granger? Fair trade-off?"

Hermione bites the inside of her cheek. She doubts the moment will ever come about where she participates in such illicit activities. But a pang in her lower gut tells her otherwise—tells her not to be so naïve.

With conflicting emotions, she agrees: "Right, Adrian. That sounds great. I'll be sure to take you up on that tempting offer."

His smile reveals the top layer of his teeth, flawless pearls that starkly contrast with his cherry lips.

Behind her, Hermione hears a door swing open. The remaining Slytherins stumble out of the room; Daphne is quaking between Blaise and Aberfield, her shivering limbs holding tightly onto her own body for dear life, like they'll crack off with any more pressure. Theo and Pansy follow closely behind; Theo's hand is placed on Pansy's back as he guides her through the hallway towards Adrian and Hermione, his eyes peeled wide open. Aberfield looks terrified.

The group approaches Adrian and Hermione, and Aberfield addresses them: "I've decided to send everyone home early to... recuperate. We'll reconvene tomorrow." He turns to Daphne, releasing her arm and patting her hand. "Get some rest, Daphne. And do consider what I've told you."

"Thanks," she whispers to Aberfield. "Sorry again for everything." Aberfield raises his hand to stop her apology, offering a warm smile. Blaise guides her away, and she nods at Hermione.

As if he senses their presence, Draco finally emerges from the bathroom, wiping his nose with his finger and revealing a despondent frown. As he trudges towards the group, Hermione recognizes the shape and distortion in his eyes; no doubt he spent the past few minutes in the restroom playing with his stash some more.

The bloodshot eyes glaring at her from a few feet away are all she needs to confirm her suspicion.

"Right, we should get going," Adrian says as Draco storms past him. "See you tomorrow, Granger. Hopefully it's a little less..." he considers his next choice of words.

"Boisterous?" Hermione offers with a chuckle.

"I'd say... rumbustious. Clamorous. But, close enough."

He winks and departs, catching up with Draco and the others as they turn down the hallways and disappear into the intricate hallways of the Ministry.

"I worry about them, Hermione," Aberfield comments when they are out of sight. "And I wonder if extra measures need to be taken to help them."

"Extra measures?" Hermione clarifies, glancing at Aberfield's tired face.

Aberfield sighs. "I've been thinking of some new courses of action to keep them from engaging in such illicit activities, but we'll need Kingsley's permission."

"I don't know..." Hermione responds. "I think they just need time. Time and company."

"Perhaps," Aberfield says. "But I worry whether that approach is too naïve."

Hermione's chest tightens. She knows it's naïve to think that the Slytherins can be rehabilitated with promises of sunshine and rainbows. Empty promises of illusory realities cannot bring them out of their slump. True happiness exists is in this reality—all she has to do is dig deep and guide them there.

"You really have such a pure heart, Hermione. Promise me you'll stay that way forever? Even when things seem to be impossible or difficult?" Aberfield asks.

Hermione smiles. She nods, clandestinely promising to do her best to bring even a sliver of happiness to their lives.

_All_ of their lives.

"I promise."

-

Hermione is curled up on her couch, a cup of tea settled in her lap as she flips through the tattered pages of the _Iliad,_ when she receives an unexpected visitor.

The dimmed lights in her apartment create a gloomy ambiance, one that can only be countered with the warmth and cackling of a fire from her brick fireplace, a wool blanket spread across her lap, the warm light of the desk lamp to her left, and the aroma of an oakwood candle lit on the same table as the lamp just beside her velvety, indigo couch. Coupled with the quintessential London fall weather spawning outside her window—the sounds of a light breeze crashing against her window and the slow fall of orange leaves descending from their comfortable spot on tree branches—Hermione allows the beauty of the anticipated evening to soothe her overwrought body.

Out of nowhere, a lovely, radiant stag apparates in front of her, its hooves hovering just above her rectangular rug that runs across the dark, wooden floors of her home.

She almost spills the tea at the sudden burst of light that fills her otherwise dim apartment. But when she regains her startled bearings and comes to understand the significance of her visitor, she feels the sides of her lips curl in a wide smile.

_Harry._

The stag relays a message so wonderful it almost brings her to tears:

_Hermione. I just wanted to check in and see how you are doing. I hope all is well at the Ministry. I hear that you're heading the new Former Death Eater Rehabilitation Program. Words cannot describe how proud I am of you. Your resilient spirit is so inspiring; I cannot understand how you hold such patience and kindness within your heart, although if anyone could do it, it'd certainly be you. I am so in awe of you and the way you bear this initiative._

_I do hope to connect further in the future. I know Ron and Ginny feels the same way. I'm sorry we haven't kept in touch over the last few months, but I'd love to hear from you soon. Maybe you could make your way to Hogsmeade one of these weekends so that we can all grab a butterbeer?_

_You're doing a wonderful thing, and you're more valiant and fearless than anyone I know. I hope you stay that way forever, 'Mione._

_Well, you know how these Patronuses are. Need to keep the message short and sweet. Stay well._

_Much love. Harry._

Tears swell in Hermione's eyes as the exquisite stag revs his hooves and disappears into the air. The echo of Harry's voice plays in her mind as a source of comfort and renaissance, a testament to the way Harry has always made Hermione feel: constantly appreciated and desperately valued. 

As she returns to her book, her eyes trailing the lines of poetry inked on the coarse parchment, her mind wanders to the program, to the Slytherins, to what Aberfield said about having to take extra measures to control them.

Control. That's not what this is about. It's about rehabilitation, regrowth, renaissance. A genesis of new ideals and beliefs, ones that affirm the intrinsic good that every person harbors.

No one is born evil. Hermione unfalteringly believes Rousseau's claim. This undoubtedly includes the Slytherins.

_Because no matter how poorly they may see themselves, Hermione sees them as harboring immense amounts of worth._

Harry's message is exactly what she needed to stabilize her restless heart. The affirmation from someone like him speaks volumes in her mind. And as she skims the next line of the classical masterpiece in her hands, she feels the message surge deeper within her body:

"You must endure and not be broken-hearted."


	8. Chapter 8

**tw: brief mention of suicide/self-harm**

Pansy is the first one of the group to notice the headline plastered on today's cover of the Daily Prophet.

The faction of wearisome and unenthusiastic Slytherins marches through the atrium of the Ministry, fleeting past the Daily Prophet newsstand to their left without so much as glancing in that direction. There isn't a sliver of interest in the news for them, anyway. However, being the one nearest to the stand as they pace through the colossal atrium, Pansy's ears effortlessly succumb to the bellowing shouts of the newsman as he pesters the ministry employees to purchase a paper. Captivated by his grandiose voice, Pansy casts a brief look to her left, and her eyes fall upon the eggshell poster displayed prominently on the front of the mahogany stand.

She scans the headline, her mouth agape at the presumptuous caption:

_Former Death Eater Rehabilitation Program: Can These Miscreants Ever Truly Amend Their Faults?_

"What the fuck..." Pansy mutters, letting go of Theo's hand and breaking off from the group. She charges towards the newsstand with fury in her eyes and heat surging from her fists.

"Anyone for a Daily Prophet?" the newsman calls out, holding up a copy of the newspaper for ministry employees to peek at. "Minister Shacklebolt to meet with the President of M.A.C.U.S.A to discuss new protocols for the Wizarding World's political configuration! Appleby Arrows to bring on a fresh, stealthy seeker for the new season! Plus, an exclusive and thrilling opinion piece on the Former Death Eater Rehabilitation Program—"

Pansy snatches a newspaper from the top of the pile resting on the stand, much to the shock of the newsman. He scoffs as she turns her back to him and struts back to the group, her fingers clutching the newspaper tightly. Her hand is searing so passionately that she swears she could scorch the pages of the newspaper with ease. The words could be consumed by fire and fall in ashes onto the floor, and she wouldn't even flinch. She'd step on the remnants of the paper and imprint them in the tiles as a testament to their imprisonment to this program.

"Oi! Missy! You've got to pay for that paper, you know?" the newsman hollers after her.

Pansy spins around, and as she continues to pace backwards, she widens her eyes and flips her middle finger up at him. "Here's my payment! Oh, and here's a monetary tip for a job well done!" 

With her free hand, Pansy removes her wand from her the pocket of her pants and points it at the towering stack of newspapers. With a simple flick, a gleam of ember sparks shoots forth from the tip of her wand, and Pansy effectively transfigures the stack of newspaper into a swarm of black ravens.

She cackles as the scene unfolds. The black birds peck at the newsman, fly around his head, and take shits on the remaining newspapers. Their squawks echo through the enormous atrium. Pansy laughs ferociously at the sight and her spawn of chaos. Suddenly, she feels an arm wrap around her waist and lift her from the ground. She turns her head to the left to see who has spoiled her fun.

"You cheeky, cheeky girl," Theo coos, carrying her back to the group.

"He deserved it! That fucking prick," Pansy protests.

"I agree. But I know you too well, Parkinson—if I hadn't come to retrieve you, then you'd probably transfigure _him_ into something next." Theo chuckles at the thought. "Besides, I can't have you causing too much trouble. I need you to save that energy for the bedroom, darling."

Pansy emits a small _hmpfh_ but eventually yields a naughty smirk as Theo carries her through the crowd of perplexed ministry workers. Shellshocked expressions cover the faces of their friends as Theo places Pansy down in front of them.

"You are quite the badass, Pans," Daphne giggles pleasantly. Pansy smirks and shrugs at the compliment, relishing in her rambunctious efforts.

"What do you have there, then?" Blaise asks, pointing to the paper.

"Right. The Daily Prophet decided to report on the fucking program," she says, shoving the paper right in their faces. The black, uppercase letters of the headline stand out boldly against the tan tabloid, effortlessly drawing their curious eyes to the paper.

Draco trails behind the group, staring down at his shoes as they tap against the tiled floors of the atrium. Adrian walks beside him, occasionally glancing over at Draco to see if there is any change to his demeanor. At the mention of their involvement in the paper, Draco's countenance shifts. He peers over Theo's shoulder to catch a glimpse of the newspaper in Pansy's hand.

Adrian too shifts his head a little closer, peering just over Pansy's shoulder. He squints his eyes to get a better look at the moving image of the Slytherins walking through the Ministry on the first day of the program, just over a month ago. Resting below and diagonal to their picture is a moving headshot of Aberfield, smiling brightly in his suit and tie.

Draco sneers at his stupid fucking face, longing to punch the fucker's nose and hear the sweet sound of Aberfield's bones crack underneath the pressure of his fist.

"I don't see the problem," Adrian says. "I look damn good in that picture."

"Merlin, Adrian," Pansy mutters with a snicker. "That's not that point!"

"What does the article say, then?" Theo presses.

Pansy reads from the page:

" _A rehabilitation program for former Death Eaters has been underway for a month now under the direction of Quincy Aberfield, the Liaison of Wizard to Wizard Relations. Mr. Aberfield was also a part of the effort to release and rehabilitate the Death Eaters who were sentenced to Azkaban after the trials following the Second Wizarding War and Voldemort's death; those who were not sentenced to die were spared at his behest, and now are confined to their homes, pending approval of their full rehabilitation._

_"Following the suicide of Graham Montague, a former Death Eater who was released from Azkaban under the duress of Mr. Aberfield and was a part of the first rehabilitation program, Mr. Aberfield decided to extend the program to the next generation of Death Eaters in the hopes that they could rehabilitate and immerse themselves in the Wizarding World once again as active members of society. The group of six currently involved in Mr. Aberfield's program includes the following: Daphne Greengrass, Blaise Zabini, Theodore Nott, Adrian Pucey, Pansy Parkinson, and Draco Malfoy. However, there seems to have been little progress made."_

"What the fuck do they mean by little progress?" Theo questions.

" _Where do these former Death Eaters find themselves every night? According to several witnesses, they are frivolously engaging in illicit activities in the basement of a pub in the small town of Hogsmeade. And what happens when they show up for their rehabilitation sessions? Screaming matches in the hallways and more clandestine drug use. Seems like one illegal activity can lead to many others when you associate yourself with dark magic. Let this be a..." Pansy slows down and clears her throat, holding back from reading the next words. But she quickly musters up her courage and continues after a few seconds."Let this be a lesson... for everyone reading. Once a de—_ "

Pansy pauses yet again, but this time does not continue. Instead, she crumples up the Daily Prophet into a ball of creased paper.

"Aren't you going to finish reading it?" Blaise asks.

"No. It's fucking bullshit." Pansy holds the paper in her face-up palm, and it suddenly vanishes with a pop in the air, a grey mist surrounding the spot which it once rested.

"Hey! I was going to frame that picture of us," Adrian jokes.

"Pans, what'd it say?" Daphne asks.

Pansy rolls her eyes. " _The Wizarding World will never forget. Once a degenerate, always a degenerate. Once a Death Eater, always a Death Eater_."

Breaking the silence that follows Pansy's deliverance of the final sentence of the article, Adrian lets out a huff. "Well fuck me," he remarks. "That's a little harsh, isn't it?"

"Merlin's beard, who the fuck came up with that _awful_ title?" Theo sneers. "How does that person have a job writing for the Daily Prophet?"

"Because it the Daily fucking Prophet. This newspaper is pure shit. Sputtering lies left and right so that they can make money is what they're best at," Blaise mutters.

"Degenerates, huh?" Draco seethes. "Fuck them. They don't know a thing about us."

"And yet they read us like an open book everywhere we go," Pansy remarks, her eyes scouring the crowd of ministry workers as they pace by them, newspapers in hand. She notices those reading the paper look at them, then look away, then glance back at them to ensure that their eyes aren't deceiving them. The glares are real, visceral, and highly judgmental.

Instinctively, the group shifts just a little closer to one another, desperate to remain attached to one another's hips as each other's protective shields.

"Can't believe some arsehole would write that about us," Daphne says, shaking her head. Blaise wraps his arm around her waist and pulls her close to him. He glares back at every worker who catches his eye, fully intent on protecting all of them—Daphne foremost—at all costs.

"I can believe it," Draco responds smugly. "Everyone fucking hates us. And I fucking hate them too—"

"Fucking hell, here we go again," Blaise mutters, dropping his head into his free hand and shaking it with an irritated ambiance.

"Oh, just let our lovely little emo king sulk in peace, Zabini," Adrian responds, patting Draco's shoulder playfully.

The group snorts. Irritated, Draco breaks free and steps a few feet in front of them. He turns around sharply and stops the group in their tracks. Around them, ministry workers rush to their posts, glancing and muttering comments in their direction. But Draco holds the group back, his lips flattened with anger and his eyes cinched with frustration.

"You all know why I did what I did. Why I act the way I do. Don't fucking pretend you're any different from me. We're all the same, really."

They cease their snickering and stare back at Draco. It's clear they've struck a coil of nerves, and they know exactly which bundle it is. The nerves rest just below his mark, and immense pain surges through them every moment of every day, sparing no inch of his being.

And they've thrashed that bundle with cosmic force, a blunt blow right to the epicenter of his pain.

Somehow able to subvert his anger, Draco responds, "Let's just get today over with."

"Do you have anything to help us with that, Malfoy?" Pansy questions, raising her left eyebrow.

Draco smirks and reaches into his pocket, pulling out a small dime bag filled with stunningly pure, white powder. He notches it between his index and middle finger and shakes the bag in the air for everyone to bear witness to. "Of course I do, Parkinson."

Draco meets the eyes of several passersby, and he curls his lips in a nefarious smile.

"They want to call us degenerates. Fine. Fuck them. Let's show these fuckers just how debauched we are."

-

Hermione feels like she's talking to a wall. A wall made of steel, fortified by layers of ignorance, disregard, and condescension.

The indigo walls of Shacklebolt's office are suffocating enough, what with the packed bookshelves, tightly structured furniture, and the unnerving memories from the day she saw the group of Slytherins again for the first time in years. The day she saw _him_ again.

And now she has to deal with Aberfield's relentless discontent and disapproval of her new ideas. Ideas that she considers to be extremely conducive to helping the Slytherins.

Why Aberfield is so wrapped up in his initial plans about the program—so unwilling to alter the approach that is clearly not functioning in the way they had hoped—is an enigma to Hermione.

She tries, anyway. She pleads with Aberfield and Shacklebolt to listen and consider the alternative proposals she has to offer.

"Quincy, please. I really believe that we need to reconsider the approach of this program."

"No... we're on the right track. Believe me, Hermione," Aberfield insists, shaking his head as a means of subverting Hermione's pleas.

Hermione has a difficult time believing that they are on the "right track" when all that has come out of this program is turmoil and substantial levels of resentment.

"I can't help but feel like the original aim of the program is useless now. It doesn't matter. And maybe it never did!" Hermione argues, wrapping her hands around the back of one of Shacklebolt's seats in front of his desk and leaning forward to shift her weight against the chair.

"What are you saying, Ms. Granger?" Shacklebolt asks, tapping his fingers against his golden desk as he too shifts forward in his seat.

Hermione clears her throat. "New circumstances have come to light, and I feel as though they take precedent over lecturing about the history of Voldemort and silly topics that don't matter anymore. They don't care about those things. We should be adapting our approach to helping them with their actual struggles."

"Ms. Granger—" Kingsley tries to interject. But Hermione is on a roll, slowly breaking down the wall with everything she has. She jackhammers the fortification with facts and observations, and she feels herself inching closer and closer to the other side, to a light that will inevitably lead to a better program for the Slytherins.

"They're _lonely._ And they've turned to unsafe coping mechanisms. It isn't difficult to discern that it is mentally and physically draining them—destroying them. We should be bringing Healers in to evaluate them. Professionals who know how to deal with this. There are even therapists and programs in the muggle world that we can look into—"

"Absolutely not. This is a Ministry project. It is also very sensitive to the Wizarding World," Aberfield explains. "You know I feel very positively about muggle-wizard integration, but sometimes these things need to be kept separated for the sake of—"

"For the sake of what? They need help, Quincy! Medical and emotional help! Healers would do wonders in that realm. I just don't see why we're continuing to waste our time on silly matters like 'the history of Voldemort' when this whole program was created to help them. We'd be helping them by addressing their drug problem."

Aberfield shudders, visibly uncomfortable with Hermione's blatant acknowledgment of their addiction.

She presses forth, though, unphased by his uncomfortableness. The severity of the situation takes precedent over Aberfield's coziness and denial of the real issue at hand.

"Have you forgotten about Graham? He was suffering. Probably begging someone to just listen to him, help him get through whatever it is that was going through his mind. And I bet that all of them—Daphne, Blaise, Theo, Pansy, Adrian, and Draco—are all feeling the same way."

Aberfield sighs. "I understand your concerns, Hermione. I really do. But this is an integral part of their rehabilitation. Learning about the history of their choices, the reason that they were involved in this matter in the first place. Lest you forget, I also helped rehabilitate their parents. I helped rehabilitate Graham _himself._ I got them all out of Azkaban with almost a hundred different appeals all aimed at the same curriculum and focus as this program. And they live comfortable lives back in their homes, reflecting on their past mistakes. They don't rot away in prison. I did that. And it was through this program."

"How comfortable could Graham's life have been, Quincy? He killed himself! Slit his wrists and bled until the pain seeped out along with everything else inside him!" Hermione shouts, feeling an immense amount of exasperation building up within her. "And just because it presumably worked for their parents, doesn't mean it will work for this group as well. Besides, I sincerely doubt that their parents had access to the same drugs and substances that—"

"Hermione, _please_ stop talking about the drugs."

She's dumbfounded. Amazed at Aberfield's willful ignorance of the true issue at hand.

"Why? It shouldn't be ignored! It's important! It's probably the reason for their despondency and resentment! You can't keep ignoring the problem and blaming it on their old choices. The program needs to adapt to that reality, otherwise they will never get the help they really need."

Aberfield and Shacklebolt exchange quick glances, and it is in that moment that Hermione feels like she might be victorious. She might sway Aberfield to see things the way she does.

But her supposed victory is short-lived. No, not even short-lived. It's squashed before it can even take its first breath. She misinterprets the shared glance as her victory when really it is the beginning of her downfall.

"Hermione, I appreciate everything you've done. You've been a very helpful assistant. I couldn't have done this without you—"

_Assistant_? That's what she is to Aberfield? His assistant?

"But we've done the preparation for this. We've spent hours meticulously going through lessons and discussion topics. And I've put in time working with their parents. I am fully aware of what works and what does not."

"Then you would know that their circumstances are completely different from their parents! Why are you ignoring this fact of the matter—"

Aberfield raises his hand, effectively silencing Hermione. "Alright. Let's compromise. I'll look into hiring some Healers to speak with them about their... problems—"

" _And_ their mental health—"

"Yes, that too. In the meantime, we can offer them daily doses of Draught of Peace to help soothe their anxiety."

It's not perfect, but it's something. "Thank you," Hermione concedes, allowing her shoulders to relax and the tension in her chest to subside slightly.

"But there is still the principle of the matter. They need to be tamed. And, with Kingsley's permission, of course, I have an idea for that."

Hermione watches as Aberfield stretches his hand forward in a fist, turns it upright, and opens it so that his palm is facing up. Within a few seconds, a light blue mist appears and hovers just above his palm. The mist is small, twirling and coiling around itself. In the midst of the vapor are small white sparks, sprouting from the center and extending to the edges of the mist like a cobweb. Hermione inches closer to the phenomenon in Aberfield's hand, wondering what exactly he is showing her.

It looks almost like a Patronus, if the charm were simply a figment of electricity and clouds. Otherwise, she is completely perplexed by the spectacle of magic before her.

"It's something I've been tinkering with over the last few weeks," Aberfield explains, smiling at the beam of light floating just above his hand. "I call it a Location Beam."

"And what exactly does it do?" Hermione asks, furrowing her eyebrows.

Aberfield sighs and clears his throat, as if he knows what he is about to say will undoubtedly cause Hermione's gut to flip and head to spin.

"It is... essentially... a tracker. The process is non invasive, though. I will infuse it through the skin on their forearms. Once the beam has settled inside their bodies, a small portion will separate and remove itself, reemerging from their bodies in a smaller version of what you see here. I place that section of the beam in a small vial, and whenever we need to determine where they have been or what they have been doing, we refer to the beams in the vials to do so. There's a simple spell that triggers the playback of the actions: _revela locum._ The beam will expand and reveal every scene, every action, every breath they have taken since implantation. Sifting through the memories and actions takes time, but I think it is a—"

"I'm sorry, _what_?" Hermione seethes. She can't believe her ears. She's convinced that her lobes are playing a trick on her because this seems completely unjustifiable. "You—you want to implant tracking devices in their bodies? That can't be allowed! That—that seems completely irrational, intrusive, and—"

"Ms. Granger, please let Quincy finish—" Shacklebolt interrupts, but Hermione is quick to object. 

"Kingsley, _please._ You can't be considering this."

Shacklebolt sighs and hoists himself off of his chair, standing and leaning his hands upon his desk. "It might be for the best," he mutters.

"Quincy," Hermione continues, "do you honestly think this is going to get them to listen? To respect either of you? This will only drive them away further. Please... This is a bad idea."

"They have brought this upon themselves, Hermione," Aberfield insists. "Things could have been different if they had just been more receptive to our initiative in the first place."

Hermione scoffs. "I am begging you to reconsider, Quincy. We didn't know everything about their circumstances when we created this program. This was all based on getting them reacquainted with the Wizarding World. Now... things are very different. We can do good for them, but this certainly isn't the way."

Aberfield sighs. "Hermione, try not to be so naïve. They made these choices. We're doing what's in their best interest. End of discussion."

"I'm not being naïve! I'm suggesting that we offer them real help! This program is not doing enough. Why... why won't you listen to me, Quincy?"

Aberfield shakes his head. Hermione is in awe of his blatant objection to her suggestions. It's nothing like how he acted when they were creating this program, and she can't wrap her mind around what is so different now.

She turns to Shacklebolt. "And you're okay with this, Kingsley? You'll allow this?"

"I think I may," Shacklebolt concedes.

"Please..." Hermione makes one final attempt to convince them. "As someone who has known them for almost a decade, I beg you not to do this. If you think that they will respond well to this, you're wrong. They'll receive this worse than everything else. Let's bring in Healers, use the Draught of Peace, and revise the program to fit their actual needs. _Please_."

Aberfield and Shacklebolt exchange another look, and Hermione's breath hitches in her throat. She can discern from their look that they are not submitting to her suggestions. They are set in their approach. Hermione can't help but consider just how irreversible the damage of this initiative will be.

It's as if they have taken ten steps back in their program. All Hermione can do is hold onto the last sliver of hope she has left. The one that continues to beg her to extend her help to them in whatever way possible.

_Because no matter how poorly they may see themselves, Hermione sees them as harboring immense amounts of worth._

-

"Are you _fucking_ crazy? You want to put _what_ inside of us?"

Draco is seething. There is steam radiating from his ears, fire burning within his mouth. He swears he could strangle Aberfield right this instant. His fists are hot, his fingers titillating and shaking with anger and the dim sensation of cocaine beginning to writhe through him, colonize him, render him captive to its intentions. He feels every single part of his body tense and vibrate. His emotions are scattered yet completely present; his body aches under both the coke and the news. They fester together, generating a storm within him. A storm that he sees no use trying to control.

The others feel the same way. They stand in the space between the door and the circle of chairs that make up their little "feelings circle," staring blankly at Aberfield upon the news of his new proposal.

Aberfield stutters, clearly afraid of what Draco is capable of when his unbridled anger takes charge. "Mr. Malfoy, please calm down—"

"You're seriously considering infusing trackers in our bodies? What the fuck is your problem—"

"Mr. _Malfoy_ —"

"That can't be legal! It can't be!" he continues to shout, flailing his arms up and down in a state of vexation.

"It is. I've confirmed the protocol with Minister Shacklebolt, and he has given his permission to go forth with this procedure. Let me remind you that this is all in your best interest—"

"Our best interest?" Draco taunts, scrunching his eyebrows and stalking towards Aberfield, who visibly shrinks away as Draco's towering body inches closer to his. "You have no idea what's in our best interest," he growls.

Hermione's hair stands erect on her body at the sound of Draco's snarl. She is behest to his mannerisms in a way that is both discomforting and captivating. The way he makes Aberfield shrink in fear is fascinating to her.

"Regardless of what you think, this measure has been approved by the Minister of Magic. And you are all being compelled to accept it."

Hermione watches it unfold. She observes their faces shift from being placid to exhibiting abject disbelief. She can see the life drained right out of their eyes as they learn about their fate.

And when Draco turns to face her, Hermione feels a sharp pang in her stomach. It disperses through her body and puts her in a state of total fear.

She could've saved them from. She could've said more.

But she failed.

"You," Draco sneers at Hermione, and she swears that her whole body goes cold at the way he addresses her. The way he makes her skin freeze with fear is beyond unsettling, and she fears that his power over her will never fade. "You think this is the right option for us, Granger? You think putting trackers in us is the way to get us to obey?"

Hermione wants to say no. She wants to tell them that she feverishly pushed for other options. That the idea of a tracker was incredibly disturbing to her. That all she wants is the best for them. For him.

She fears that they will label her as a holier-than-thou savior, though.

Maybe that's why when she opens her mouth to explain herself, absolutely nothing comes out. Instead, she breathes out air that is kissed with quietness, empty and submissive to the will of the Ministry. Her silence betrays her thoughts, cloaks them in a veil of Aberfield and Shacklebolt's influence and power.

_An assistant. She's apparently just an assistant._

Draco huffs at her silence, shaking his head and crossing his arms over his chest.

There they are again—his tattoos. Hermione's wandering eyes fall on the splurge of ink layering his body. Something about the chaos of the designs intrigues Hermione beyond comprehension. It's the manner by which they're sprawled across his body, painting him in a light so intriguing and dark that Hermione can't help but wonder how much pain he must've been under when he got them etched into his porcelain skin. They're like a puzzle, coating his arms and chest in a medley of designs.

Hermione wants to solve the puzzle. Wants to piece together every tattoo he's ever had imbued into his skin. The wheels of her mind won't stop turning until she does.

"You say you want to help us—that these trackers will be good for us. That they'll keep us ordered and controlled." Draco flares his nostrils at Aberfield. "I promise you that they won't."

The Slytherins are silent, but the aura of the room speaks volumes. Hermione cowers at her own weakness, reverts into a bubble of shame as the eyes of the Slytherins dart back and forth between her and Aberfield. Every one of them begs her with their eyes to stop this. Say something. Truly help them.

She's tried, though. And Aberfield didn't listen.

And she didn't know why. _Why_ wouldn't his listen to her?

Aberfield ignores Draco's comment in the same way he ignored Hermione's suggestions. He speaks plainly: "The process is noninvasive. Just takes a little magic. And it is mandatory."

"You can't do this, Aberfield," Adrian says, shaking his head. Hermione swears that the shells of Adrian's eyes are wet with hopelessness. A part of her breaks as she scans the other Slytherins, who all exhibit a look of both resentment and gloom.

And her eyes fall on Theo's. He locks them in place.

"Granger, come on..." Theo pleads. "Help us out."

"You've left us no choice," Aberfield interrupts, clasping his hands behind his back and broadening his shoulders and chest as a way of exerting authority and indifference to their fruitless pleas. "With last week's chaotic disruption, we can't risk having you act out again. If that means inhibiting your engagement with such... illicit activities... then so be it."

"There has to be _some_ law against this—" Blaise starts.

"There isn't. As I said, this is Ministry approved." Aberfield sighs, and Draco detects that the sigh is insincere, masked in some sort of ulterior agenda. "We just want to help."

"You don't want to help us," Draco seethes. "You want to _control_ us."

"We have to exert some authority over you if you want to get better. Otherwise, you'll remain privy to your habits. At least this way we can counter the..." He gulps, swallowing the word he planned on using.

"Fuck's sake, you're such a pussy," Pansy remarks under her breath, and in the middle of the substantially tense moment, Theo emits a soft chuckle and squeezes Pansy's hand. She jabs her tongue on the inside of her cheek and smirks, her lip curling with pleasure.

"Like I said," Draco continues, "all you want to do is fucking control us."

"Your other options are much bleaker, Mr. Malfoy."

"Other options?" Daphne asks.

"There's the possibility of a more evasive and unpleasant form of rehab," Aberfield explains in a rather threatening tone, one built on the precipice of his dwindling patience.

"More unpleasant than this shitshow you call a rehabilitation effort?" Draco remarks.

"I'd say so, Mr. Malfoy. If you'd like to be subjected to St. Mungo's infamous fourth floor, where they'll treat you like you don't have a shrivel of consciousness left within you, then by all means you can withhold consent for the tracker. But do be advised that the program there is much more invasive than this. You won't even feel like a person. They'll strap you down to a bed, monitor you constantly, and your withdrawal will be just as bad as it already is. At least here we can slowly phase out your habits and reorient you with the pleasantness of sobriety. I promise you this: at St. Mungo's, your chance of recovery and survival are slim. You'll go mad there."

If ever there was a more overwrought, strained moment of silence, this moment tops it all. Aberfield's threat rings through their ears like a shrill siren, the frequency of the buzzing so high-pitched that not even a swarm of bats could hear it.

But the Slytherins do. Very clearly. It reverberates through their brains, unceasing in its ominous missive.

It even counteracts the cocaine they consumed several minutes before the meeting. It's as if the powder's effects are reversed by the sheer threat of forced hospitalization.

Aberfield sighs loudly and removes his wand. "Please form a line. I'll make this as quick as possible."

There is hesitation, but the Slytherins eventually give in and organize themselves into a straight line with the knowledge that they do not really have much of a choice in the matter.

A choice. Draco laughs to himself. That word haunts him.

Aberfield steps forward and begins the process, and all Hermione can do is stare. Watch as Aberfield places his wand upon their arms, just above their Dark Marks, and injects them with the blue light, revoking any shrivel of autonomy they once harbored right out of their body.

A quiet hiss, like the sound of a hot saucer against one's skin, fills the air each time the beam settles underneath the membrane of their arms. And then, after a few seconds, a small part of the light seeps out. Aberfield catches the remaining part of the light in small vials that he pulls from his satchel, labeled with the initials of each Slytherin.

Aberfield treads down the line, one by one, embedding them with the tracker.

And Hermione just... watches. Her body shakes. The sight of it is perturbing beyond belief.

And as Aberfield places the tip of his wand on Draco's forearm, just above his concealed Dark Mark, Draco locks eyes with Hermione. Stares at her during the entire process, breathing slowly, engaging her soul with his own.

Hermione can't look away. The way his icy eyes capture her attention, hook her completely in a state of tense apprehension, makes it impossible for her to break their eye contact. She can practically hear his thoughts.

_Why are you letting this happen, Granger?_

She doesn't know. She wishes she could stop it. She wishes she could fucking help them.

Hermione wonders where it all went wrong.

And just how much worse it is going to get.


	9. Chapter 9

The October breeze bears curiosity as it crashes against Hermione's apartment window. The wind seeps its way through the crack between the window and the frame, straight into her home; Hermione feels the fresh atmosphere—blended with the air from outside and the aroma of her lit oakwood candle—bend to her innermost thoughts and desires. The smells and sensations congeal and stir a determination within her to unpack and fathom what happened just a week ago.

She regrettably replays the reality of the situation in her head: Aberfield infused trackers within the Slytherins.

_Location Beams._ Hermione had never heard of such a thing before. The only thing that came close to Aberfield's trackers was the Trace, but that magic was entirely distinctive to what Aberfield crafted. To put a tracking device not on someone's wand but _inside_ their body, trailing every little move, every action, every _breath_ they took—that is a complete invasion of privacy.

And she did nothing to stop it. She just watched as the Slytherins' autonomies were torn away from them. Stood by as yet another part of them was forced to sustain immeasurable amounts of dark and unusual magic.

She should've said something. Why was she so afraid to do that?

Hermione peers across her small living room towards the bookshelf nestled to the left of her brick fireplace. A light fire crackles, its ember sparks and flames illuminating the dim room and breathing a sense of passion within her—an ardent desire to investigate the circumstances that Aberfield had forced upon the group of Slytherins.

Her eyes skim the dozens of books that line her wooden shelves, combing through the mix of tattered and pristine volumes for something to read that would tell her about the process of spell creation.

She knew several cases of spell creation off the top of her head already.

Luna Lovegood's mother, Pandora. Hermione remembers Luna explaining to her that when she young—just a few years before coming to Hogwarts—her mother was experimenting with a new spell she created. When the spell backfired, it killed her instantly. It's why Luna can see Thestrals.

Then, there's Tom Riddle. He created _Morsmordre_ out of pure evilness, and consequently passed on the skills required to creating one's own dark spell to his followers so that they too could attribute to the promotion of dark magic. In fact, Hermione recalls that Antonin Dolohov created his own spell and exercised it multiple times during the the infamous Battle at Hogwarts. Hermione remembers it clearly; he almost hexed her with it.

And Snape crafted _Sectumsempra_ , among other spells. But that specific one always stuck with Hermione; when Harry told her whose spell it was that sliced Draco's chest open, she cried. She felt betrayed by Snape, both for herself and for Draco.

She thinks about the infirmary. Seeing Draco lying in his hospital bed, alone.

She should've approached him then. Just like she should've done something yesterday. Both times she's failed to do something for him, even when her heart begged her to.

Hermione runs her fingers through her tangled curls, trying not to dwell on the past, but rather planning to amend her past failures in the future.

Add to the list of spell creators Quincy Aberfield, charming up a Location Beam and creating revela locum.

She wants to search for information on how that is done—how one can simply create a spell out of nothingness. What the process is, how it affects the witch or wizard who creates it, and what it means for the Wizarding World itself to have a new spell ready at the helm of everyone's wands.

Her eyes glance over a tried and true book: Miranda Goshawk's _Book of Spells._

During her fourth year, she duplicated the book from the library in Hogwarts and snuck it back home with her, wanting to read and learn about every spell the pages had to offer. She would look at the book every day, commit the spells to memory, and savor in the fashion that the Latin rolled off her tongue, like the magic instinctively belonged to her. She looked at that book every day, read those spells with great care and dedication, and it reminded her that she was deserving of this life—this life with magic.

She wiggles her finger at the book and says, " _Accio_."

The tome floats out of its spot on the case, nestled between two other books. It soars through the air and into Hermione's hands. She catches it and strokes the texture of the vellum. Opening the book to a random page somewhere near the middle, she falls upon the section of spells that start with the letter 'P.'

Her goal is to find something about a tracking or location spell.

She flips to 'T,' gazing the pages of miniscule text for any spell that resembles a tracking charm. Her finger traces each entry with care and attention, scouring for anything that could explain Aberfield's phenomenon. Her nail falls upon something: 'the Tracking Spell.' Reading the entry, she searches for information about a tracker, a location beam—anything that resembled Aberfield's own charm.

She groans as she realizes that this spell isn't the same. It only reveals traces of magical activity in a given area; it has nothing to do with tracking one's location or implanting beams of light into one's body. Nothing to do with harboring complete control and authority over someone else.

However, she notices an asterisk next to the Tracking Spell, which guides her to the bottom of the page. Dropping her eyes to the sub-note, she scans a sub-entry about a similar spell: ' _Avensegium_ , page 34.' She flips to the mentioned page, following the same process as before with tracing the spells with her finger. Finding the charm, she reads the properties:

Avensegium _is a charm that turns an object into a tracking device—_

Hermione slams the book shut and tosses it to the side of the couch.

She doesn't know why she surrenders so suddenly. Why is feels like nothing is working.

She gives up on the Location Beam—for now. But she promises to come back to it when she can find a more in-depth book about spell creation. Perhaps she could bother Harry to snoop around the Restricted Section of the Hogwarts Library like they did years ago.

She smiles at the memories. Yes, she'd write to Harry and ask him for this favor.

Affirming her news course of action, Hermione resolves to remind herself of the ingredients in Draught of Peace. She recalls them effortlessly, as if that lesson occurred just yesterday: moonstone, Syrup of Hellebore, Unicorn horn, porcupine quills, and Valerian root.

They're relatively uncommon ingredients, but she sees no concern as to whether or not Aberfield will be able to come across them. With extensive archives at the Ministry and plenty of connections, Aberfield could likely attain those ingredients without issue.

She does harbor concern for Aberfield himself, though.

What had changed? When they began planning the program together days after Graham's death became public knowledge, Aberfield had been so receptive to her ideas and excited about restarting the program as a means of reaching the younger generation. It seemed like he really wanted to help the Slytherins. He crafted a comprehensive plan that Hermione considered to be effective and conducive to their reintegration in the Wizarding World.

Things changed when their drug problem came to light. The transformation was steady, but it happened, nonetheless.

Hermione reminds herself that it's not that the program changed, but rather it didn't adjust for the better. It became worse—consumed with ideas and techniques that did nothing to help the Slytherins with their most pressing problem. Aberfield actively ignored their drug addiction, treating it as inferior to his idea of rehabilitation, which apparently consisted of berating and dehumanizing them for their past choices.

_As if that will help at all..._

When Hermione had offered to assist him with brewing the potion because of her aptitude for such an art, she was shot down by Aberfield, who said that he would brew it himself. He followed his response with ambiguous reasoning, saying that he didn't want to trouble Hermione with something so tedious and irrelevant. Hermione didn't find it irrelevant, though—the Draught of Peace was going to soothe the Slytherins in ways that the program wasn't succeeding at. It was going to serve as a medication, of sorts. A way to numb their pain.

Was it selfish that she wanted to brew the Draught of Peace all by herself?

Is the whole program selfish? Is it just a way to make her feel less guilty about all the times she could have intervened and helped them? About the fact that she couldn't be strong enough to stand up for the Slytherins back at Hogwarts when they needed it?

Was she making up for that now by working with Aberfield on this pathetic excuse of a rehabilitation program?

Hermione rubs her eyes and exhales, wishing the wheels of her brain would stop turning for just one _fucking_ minute. Wishing she wouldn't over analyze _everything_ in her life.

She hears a purr at her feet and casts her eyes down to the source of the noise; Crookshanks paces over her feet, rubbing his ginger fur, tainted with grey stripes, across her bare legs and reaping ephemeral giggles from Hermione.

Bending over, Hermione hooks her hand under Crookshanks and lifts him up, placing him in her lap and scratching his pelt just above the base of his tail—his favorite spot to be coddled. He purrs again, placing his little paws against her chest and nestling his head onto Hermione's blushed cheek.

She kisses his nose once, twice, then three times. Never has she adored a sight more than his scrunched nose and big, beady eyes. Others would take a look at him and assume the worst; Crookshanks' beauty comes from within, manifesting itself in the way he nestles against her, purrs, and exemplifies his adoration for her. All he needs is a push—someone to show him affection, and he's putty in their hands.

It reminds her of _him_ —someone with a tough exterior, judged too quickly by everyone else.

She wonders if on the inside, he's just the same as her bloody cat.

-

"Welcome back. I hope you've all had a calm weekend—one full of reflection and contemplation since our last meeting."

The group of bored Slytherins stares back at Aberfield with completely blank expressions.

Aberfield clears his throat, cognizant of the everlasting tension that comes with each meeting. "Right," he mumbles, tapping his fingers against his knee, "how are you all feeling today?"

They all remain silent, continuing to stare at him with intense discouragement. Draco lowers his eyebrows at him and bites the inside of the side of his lip, wishing he'd snorted his morning dose of cocaine _before_ subjecting himself to today's lesson.

"I do have something for you all," Aberfield exclaims, trying to alter the despondent ambiance of the room to one a little bit brighter. No one humors it, though. They don't just stare at him anymore—now they glare, each one shooting daggers at him with their vexed expressions and scolding eyes.

"Let me guess," Theo says, breaking the ominous silence, "you plan to inject us with something else today?"

Aberfield presses his lips together and shakes his head. "Like I said, that was in your best interest—"

"Sure it was," Draco whispers, rolling his head back and lounging further into his chair.

"This is something that I think will help with the pain and agitation I see you've all been experiencing," Aberfield explains, standing up and ambling towards the table shoved against the back wall of the room. Laid out on the wooden surface is a rack with six vials lodged within the openings, all filled to the brim with a turquoise-blue liquid. Aberfield collects them in his hands and begins to describe the purpose of the substance. "This is Draught of Peace. It will help soothe your agitation and anxiety. I've concocted it myself, and you'll be pleased to know that I received an O in Potions while attending Hogwarts," he says with a chuckle. "It's perfect."

"I wonder what this guy's social life was like at Hogwarts," Theo mumbles in Pansy's ear, followed by a subtle kiss against the top of her ear.

"I wouldn't be surprised if he spent his Friday nights alone, his only source of company being his right fucking hand," Pansy responds.

Theo snickers as Aberfield approaches the circle and begins to pass out the potions to each Slytherin.

Everyone receives their vial, twirling it in their hands and inspecting the enchanting color of the liquid. When Aberfield lands on Draco, he initially hesitates taking the potion. Eventually, Draco yanks it right out of Aberfield's hand, but not without parading a conspicuous and dramatic eye roll.

"Go ahead and take it now while it's still fresh. I simmered it minutes before the meeting, so it should be ready for consumption," Aberfield instructs, sitting back down in his chair and watching intently as the Slytherins observe the potions.

Hermione notices immense apprehension among the Slytherins—and why shouldn't they be apprehensive about it? Aberfield had injected trackers in them a few days prior. Their skepticism is completely warranted and valid.

To Hermione surprise, they oblige. The first to ingest his potion is Blaise; he twists the cork of the vial open, and out pours a stream of grey mist in conjunction with a light sizzling sound. Holding the vial up in the air, he gulps in preparation and knocks the potion back into his throat. Daphne follows suit, then Pansy, then Theo, then Adrian, and then finally Draco.

Aberfield smiles, then turns to Hermione. "Would you collect their vials for me, Hermione?"

_Apparently, she's just an assistant._

Hermione concedes, standing and collecting the vials from each person, then breaking through the circle and placing them in the rack upon the table. Behind her, she hears Aberfield initiate the discussion; with her back to the group, Hermione subtly holds a vial up to her nose and smells the potion.

Everything smells normal. Everything looks normal.

She considers taking one of the vials with her to confirm its validity but goes against it in fear that Aberfield would notice a missing vial.

For now. She goes against it _for now._

She slowly returns to the group as Aberfield continues to lecture.

He talks and talks and talks. Hermione doesn't bother listening because, one again, the wheels in her brain won't stop turning, gyrating, churning out dozens of thoughts, concerns, and questions about what the fuck she's even doing here. What she's even contributing to this program. Her brain coils around itself, as if the webs of questions and concerns consume her mind and drain out every other possible function. She can only think about her current situation—everything else fades away.

For a brief moment, Hermione falls out of her trance; as her eyes course over the faces of the group, they abruptly stop on Adrian's face, who sits next to Draco and across the circle from her and Aberfield.

She inspects his expression closely.

She's never seen him look so tense before.

It's during the moment that Aberfield references Unforgiveable Curses. Hermione watches as Adrian purses his lips and cracks his neck uncomfortably; he shudders, as if something has just climbed up his back and ominously blown wind across the nape of his neck.

And Hermione notices; she watches as his fingers curl underneath his chair, his tongue swipes across his teeth and mouth, and his chest heaves up and down.

She feels the same things, forced to closer her eyes and take deep breaths to endure the inescapable images of her own suffering. It swarms back into her mind—writing under Bellatrix, begging and screaming for her to stop. The memory floods her mind in waves of all too palpable senses; she smells Bellatrix's musky aroma, feels her teeth and dagger sink deep into her skin, hears her hiss just atop the alcove of her ear, and sees the look of pure insanity in her eyes.

She dispels the thought as quickly as possible, unwilling to relive it further.

And when she opens her eyes again, she witnesses something unexpected before her.

Draco's hand is on Adrian's shoulder. They look at one another, exchanging soft smiles.

Hermione's mouth hangs open slightly as she considers what the gesture could mean. Why Adrian recoiled at the mention of such curses as well.

To her knowledge, Adrian himself had never been under the influence of an Unforgiveable. But then again, she barely knows him. He was never someone that Hermione paid attention to because he was never a major threat. No, that was Draco, Pansy, Marcus, Graham, even Theo at times. But her knowledge about Adrian and his past is scarce, so who is she to assume what he has gone through?

Who was she to assume _anything_ about them?

They've all led lives that she could never fully understand. She harbors her own trauma, her own problems, her own pains, but so do they. A part of her concluded a long time ago that she could never sincerely understand their tribulations.

She resolves to never pretend to try, but to always sympathize whenever possible.

"The reason I bring up such dark magic is because I want us to have a discussion about what compels us to perform such spells. And how such spells represent a relinquishment of our free will. Now, I'd like to discuss what free will means to you, and how our choices affect not only the people around us but also ourselves."

"Merlin's ball sack," Draco mumbles, shoving his head into his hands and leaning against his knees. "You're so fucking dimwitted it hurts."

Aberfield flinches at Draco's comment. "Pardon me, Mr. Malfoy?"

Hermione already senses the start of another outburst. She can see the chaos burning in Draco's eyes and fingers, itching to spring itself free from his body.

"You think any of us _willingly_ performed an Unforgiveable on someone? That our insides were just longing to torture people? That we get off on seeing other people in pain because—what—we were Death Eaters? Oh, you know what, let me rephrase that—because once a Death Eater, always a Death Eater? At least, that's according to the issue of the Daily Prophet that was passed out to every single witch and wizard in the United Kingdom—and maybe even beyond the country—to not only create but also propel a distorted image of us as these innately evil individuals—"

"Alright, I understand your frustration, Mr. Malfoy—"

"No! You don't! You _fucking_ don't!" Draco shouts, rising from his chair and pointing his index finger at Aberfield. "Stop fucking pretending like you know what it's like! You don't! You never have, and you never will!"

Hermione deduces that the Drought of Peace has obviously not settled in Draco's system just yet.

"I'm only trying to help—"

"Like you helped Graham?"

The room falls silent at Draco's comment, like the air has been sucked out by a vacuum. It leaves them in a space of total emptiness, Draco's words lingering in the void as their only source of oxygen. They're all forced to swallow it to breathe—all forced to come to terms with the reality of Graham's suicide. Even Aberfield.

Draco sneers, cognizant of the chord he has struck. "Yeah, you really did _fucking_ wonders for him. For our parents. You know we haven't seen them since they got out of Azkaban? And you take _pride_ in that fucking program? You think your lessons actually helped then and now?"

"Malfoy, it's not worth it," Adrian advises, standing and placing his arm in front of Draco, trying to reign him in and bring him back to his senses.

"Listen to your friend, Mr. Malfoy," Aberfield warns, cocking one of his eyebrows.

"Or what?" Draco taunts. "You're going to silence me again? You're going to inject something else in me? Force a sedative down my throat to get me to shut up?"

"I just might, if you continue to disrupt the discussion," Aberfield cautions.

"What _fucking_ discussion?" Draco almost shouts. "None of us give a shit! Not one of us has talked! All you do is ramble on about material we don't care about; you just force this bullshit down our throats and into our bodies. If this really was a discussion, then you'd also be listening to us."

Hermione can't help herself. From the look on Adrian's face and the way Draco is reacting, she knows she needs to stand up and soothe his outburst before something unscrupulous materializes.

She rises abruptly, and everyone's eyes shoot in her direction.

"Quincy, please. Malfoy is... right. Let's take a break. Maybe we can reconvene tomorrow? I—"

"No, Hermione. We can't do that."

The walls come back, trapping Hermione in a box yet again. A box where her ideas and suggestions bounce of the walls and right back into her brain, unable to pierce through the exterior that Aberfield has built around her.

She won't back down this time without a proper fight, though. Without showing them that she really does care.

Aberfield's patience with Draco withers away. He stands and removes his wand from his blazer pocket, twisting it in his hand as a kind of admonition. "Mr. Malfoy, you have five seconds to sit back down."

Draco chuckles, unphased by Aberfield's caveat.

Hermione's heart begins to race. "Quincy, that isn't necessary."

"Just let him go for a walk," Adrian pleads, scrunching his eyebrows and soliciting Aberfield's mercy.

"He's just frustrated," Pansy chimes in, now on her feet along with the others.

Aberfield lifts and aims his wand at Draco, who refuses to sit back down.

Hermione can feel every muscle tense within her. She stares at Draco, entreating him with her mind to just sit back down. To endure the pain of the meeting just a little longer.

"Draco, please sit down," Pansy urges, desperation painted in her sullen eyes.

"No." Draco's voice is unwavering and resolute.

Hermione tries one more time to reason with him. "Malfoy—"

Her sentence is cut off by a white spark shooting from Aberfield's wand and striking Draco square in the chest.

Draco falls backwards, tumbling into his chair abruptly.

The rest of the group leaps out of their chairs.

"Whoa—what the fuck!" Adrian screeches, flailing his arms in the air in exasperation. With a look of unbridled anger, Aberfield flicks his wand again, and suddenly Draco is engulfed in a series of ropes that coil around his body. The ropes tie around his ankles, his thighs, and his torso, securing him to the back of the chair and revoking his ability to move.

To Hermione's shock and horror, a thin rag wraps itself around Draco's mouth, securing itself between his teeth and around his head. Draco bites down on the rag, his teeth searing into the fabric with deep ferocity.

Hermione can't believe what she's seeing. What Aberfield has done.

Her instincts takes control; she rushes towards Draco.

"Are you fucking serious? Why the hell would you do that?" Daphne screams, stumbling towards Draco as well and reaching towards his binds, feverishly pulling and tugging at them. But they won't give. Hermione and Daphne continue to work at the ropes winding around Draco's body.

"You left me no choice—"

"You _can't_ use magic on us like this! Let him go!" Blaise yells.

Hermione pulls out her wand and tries to reverse Aberfield's spell. The ropes don't give in to her magic, though. They persist, coiling themselves around Draco even tighter.

Draco looks at Hermione, his eyes on fire. His teeth pierce down on the cloth, and he struggles beneath the ropes with aggressive grunts and jolts. Hermione's mouth hangs open as she and Daphne desperately pull at the ropes. She resolves to place her hand on the nape of his neck as a means of support as she tries to tug the cloth out of his mouth. It just won't budge. And she frantically searches for a knot to untie, but there's nothing.

"I'm... Malfoy, I'm so—"

Draco grunts and shakes his head, attempting to speak through the rag that acts as a gag within his mouth. To Hermione, it sounds as though he is saying "don't."

Don't?

"Let him go, Aberfield!" Theo shouts as he and Adrian stalk towards Aberfield.

"Remember what I said? About St. Mungo's? THIS is exactly how you would be treated. Is that what you all want?" Aberfield yells, shaking his wand at Theo and Adrian as they approach him.

"No! We would _not_ like to be treated like this!" Adrian shouts, rage dispersed through each word he delivers. "So why are you doing this?"

"To teach you all a lesson!" Aberfield explains. "I'm not one to be undermined!"

Draco continues to struggle beneath the ropes, grunting and growling as his eyes remain fixed on Aberfield.

"Well, alright! We've learned! Let him go—please!" Daphne begs, wrapping her hand around his wrist as a means of calming him down. Hermione follows Daphne's action, swathing her hand around Draco's left wrist. The way her skin connects with his rushing pulse sends shivers up her arms; she can feel the desperation and anxiety in his body pulse through his throbbing veins.

"This is highly unprofessional, Quincy!" Hermione interjects, her voice raised in anger. "And I have the right to tell Shacklebolt about your completely inexcusable conduct—"

"He's approved all of my measures already, Hermione," Aberfield responds sharply. "Besides, I have no choice. If they want to keep acting out... then... then... this is how it will have to be."

"Fuck's sake, this is what Draco was talking about! Listen to her! Listen to _us_! We fucking get it!" Blaise yells back.

Quivering with frustration, Aberfield returns Draco's eye contact, his wand still pointed straight at him. "Do you, Mr. Malfoy? Do you understand?"

The fire in Draco's eyes could scorch through Aberfield's skin if he wished. But, to everyone's surprise, he nods in submission.

"And you'll be quiet?" Aberfield pesters, widening his eyes.

Draco nods again.

"Step aside now, ladies," Aberfield instructs Daphne and Hermione. They each let go off Draco's arms and step backwards. Aberfield releases the spell: " _Finite_."

The ropes around Draco suddenly vanish into thin air, a light grey mist bursting around him for a few moments before disappearing altogether. With the ropes and rag go the evidence of the spell and mistreatment altogether, evaporating into the void as if it never happened. Draco abruptly jolts out of his chair, standing and breathing with mammoth anger.

"I'm taking a walk," Draco growls through gritted teeth, pushing past everyone in the circle and storming out the door, not bothering to look back.

Hermione wants to follow him.

She has to stop feeling that tug. She has to refrain from running to his aid every time he storms out. But he deserves someone to care about him, _damnit_. Someone who will listen.

She goes against her better judgement and follows him. Behind her, Aberfield's shouts drain in the background, the only thing coursing through her mind being what she'll say to Draco if she catches up with him. As she pushes the door open and steps out into the hallway, she feverishly glances around, looking for that blonde hair and those distinguishable tattoos. But Draco is nowhere in sight.

Her eyes fall on the door of the bathroom, and she takes a leap of faith, feels the tug draw her to the lavatory with urgency.

She marches to the door, takes a deep breath, and shoves it open.

And he's there. He leans his shaking hands against the counter, head lowered in the sink, shoulders contorted, back arched, and chest falling up and down in a rickety pace. The door closes behind Hermione with a click of the handle, and Draco's head jolts to the right at the abrupt; their eyes lock.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me," Draco growls, twisting his head back to face the mirror. He stares at himself in the reflection, disgusted with everything he sees.

"I'm just—"

"You're just checking up on me! Yeah! I fucking know, Granger!" Draco shouts, his fingers pressing against his temples in a state of downright aggravation.

Hermione inhales, filling her lungs with a gust of oxygen fused with bravery and altruism.

"Malfoy, I'm really sorry about what just happened—"

" _Don't_ apologize," he snaps. "I don't want to hear anything from you."

Hermione ignores him and presses on, desperate to get her point across. "I should've done more to help you. Should've done everything I could to stop him. And I..." She fears her next words will dig up unresolved issues, but she says them anyway. "I shouldn't have just stood there while he put those trackers in you."

"You think?" he retorts with a tang of sarcasm.

She sighs. "You asked me if I thought this is what's best for you. That day, when Aberfield put the trackers inside of you."

Draco looks back at her, flaring his nostrils and awaiting the continuation of her sentence.

"Of course I don't think that. Of course I fought against it. When Aberfield brought it up with Shacklebolt, I begged them not to go through with it. I told them over and over that it wouldn't work."

"Glad to know your skills of persuasion are sharp as ever," he scolds her.

She huffs and rolls her eyes. "It's less about my lack of persuasion and more about my lack of testosterone, I presume..." Hermione mumbles, her fingers twirling a piece of loose string on her sweater.

Draco emits a _hmpfh_ and leans against the sink, his eyes trailing up and down Hermione's figure. She can feel his gaze all over her, and she wonders if this is what it feels like for him when she stares at his tattoos.

Hermione clears her throat. "Do you want to talk about what happened?"

Draco snickers. "Absolutely not."

"But I thought that's what you said you wanted?" Hermione pushes.

"Well, the time for talking today has passed. Instead, I think I'll turn to something a little more... effective."

A knot curls in Hermione's stomach at Draco's ambiguous yet perfectly clear insinuation.

She gulps as Draco reaches into the pocket of his slacks and pulls out a dime bag full of white powder, similar to the one she saw him toy with the first day of the program just over a month ago.

Draco perceives Hermione's uncomfortableness and uses it to his advantage, taunting her with the unsavory sight. "You want to watch me do it?" he hisses, shaking the small baggie in the air, allowing the grains of powder to shift up and down within the plastic. "You want to watch how I successfully drown out everything in my life?"

"You don't have to do this, Malfoy," Hermione says, reaching her hand forward to grab the bag out of his hand. She should've known better than try to snatch his drugs, though; he withdraws his arm abruptly and tuts his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

"Don't even think about it," he growls. "You keep those hands to yourself, Granger. I want you to just sit back and watch as I fucking snort this cocaine."

"Please, don't. You don't have to turn to that anymore. I want to help you."

"Merlin, I _fucking_ hate that word. You pity me, don't you? And you want to 'fix' me, right? Want to make everyone think that you're my liberator?"

"Please, that's not it at all—"

Draco tears opens the seal of the bag, much to Hermione's protests. He dips his finger inside, curls the top of his index finger beneath the powder, and collects a pile of the cocaine. Shaking his finger to gather the perfect amount of powder, stacked like a tiny mountain upon the tip of his finger, he slowly removes his digit and holds it up to his nose.

"Nothing can fix me. You understand? Nothing. This is all I need to feel better. All I'll _ever_ need."

Hermione shakes her head, but Draco just snarls back at her.

"This isn't the ideal way to do it, but it'll have to do. Watch."

He shoves his finger to his nostril and immediately inhales the substance; Hermione watches with dismay as it disappears up into his nose. His eyes shut and his face trembles with pleasure. He swipes his nose several times with the same finger that the cocaine rested on, ensuring that he does not waste one grain of it. Once he finishes, he looks back down at Hermione, his nose twitching with gratification.

"Almost forgot," Draco says with a smirk, removing his wand from his pocket and pointing it at his head. " _Accelero momentum_."

Hermione cocks an eyebrow. "What did you—"

"I sped up the process," Draco quickly responds. "I want you to watch the way it all unfolds."

Hermione shakes her head. "I don't want to watch that."

"Yeah, well, I'm not giving you a choice." He sniffs and compulsively swipes his finger under his nose again. "And now you'll know what that's like—to not have a choice. To be forced to watch something happen right before your eyes that you wish you could've stopped but didn't because someone else was fucking controlling you. Manipulating you. Holding you prisoner in your own body."

Pain seeps out of his eyes as he delivers those sentences. Pain and... regret.

"What are you referring to?" she asks quietly.

Draco's eyes widen. " _Nothing_."

Hermione doesn't believe him.

"I do know how that feels," she responds. "That's all I've been feeling these past few weeks. I've been dying to help you in a way that matters, but Aberfield won't listen to me. So I do know how you feel."

Draco shakes his head. "That's not the same thing. Do you have a tracker implanted in your body? A fucking tattoo of some ugly skull and serpent that will _never_ go away? No matter how many times you scrub at it? Scratch at it? Tear at your fucking skin until it bleeds?"

Hermione doesn't answer because she _hasn't_ felt those things.

"Huh? Do you?" Draco repeats.

She concedes, shaking her head. "No."

"Exactly. I'm a fucking prisoner to those things. I might as well be in Azkaban."

"That's how you feel, then?" Hermione asks. "Like a prisoner in your own body?"

Draco hesitates, then groans. "Don't make this some kind of therapy session."

"I'm just trying to have a conversation with you. Isn't that what you want?"

"You... you are something else, Granger, you know that?"

"Is that not what you want?"

"I just snorted cocaine in front of you, and you want to talk about _feelings_?"

Hermione straightens her shoulders. " _Precisely_."

Draco laughs, and Hermione notices his fingers continue to twitch and quiver. He sucks in two quick breaths through his nose and yet again swipes his thumb under his nostrils.

His chest heaves more visibly. Hermione can't refrain from gawking at his new mannerisms.

"Yeah... you see that, Granger?" Draco asks, diverting the topic as he notices Hermione's enamored gaze. "That's the cocaine. It's also the spell speeding it up, forcing it to stream around inside of me so that is takes over every inch of my insides. You want me to tell you what will happen to me?"

Hermione is silent; Draco takes it as his cue to explain the intricate process slowly and sweetly.

"Soon, the lights of this bathroom will become too bright to handle. And my fingers will tremble until they feel like they're going to fall off." He sluggishly starts walking towards Hermione, and she swears the room shrinks around her with each step he takes. "I'll hear, see, feel, smell, and taste every little thing that makes contact with me. I'll perceive it ten times more strongly than normal; that's one of the best parts, actually. Every sense is elevated, increases to monstrous levels of sensitivity. I'll be able to feel _every_ little thing."

He's closer to her now, and she begins to tread backwards. While she physically recoils from Draco as he stalks her, she can't help but feel enticed by his vivid descriptions, enamored by the way he describes the feeling of euphoria. She lets him continue, drowning in his words: "And there will be a lovely little buzz in my head. It's the dopamine, talking to me. Whispering wonderful little things in my ears about what it wants me to do."

Hermione can't help the word vomit; it spills out of her mouth, stemming from a place deep within her of genuine fascination. "And then what?"

Draco stops walking towards her and laughs, pleasantly surprised by Hermione's question. "Oh, I see. You're _intrigued_ , aren't you?"

"Well I—"

"You want to know how this feels, don't you?" he slurs with a smirk.

She can't breathe. Can't function. Can't focus on anything except for the look of pure euphoria taking over Draco's face.

"You know something, Granger," Draco continues, resuming his inching towards her, "I always thought you had a little dark side to you. A part of you that wanted to break free from your boring life. I think that part of you is dying to come out. And seeing me do this—I think it makes you feel something you've never felt before."

He's reading her mind. The closer he gets to her, the more of her he is able to pick apart with ease.

She wanted to do that. She wanted to be the one to unfold his layers, pull them back with her fingers and words.

But somehow, he's flipped the power. She's wrapped around his finger, enchanted by his actions. His tempting, appealing, practically irresistible actions.

"Am I right?" he asks again with a smirk.

Before she can answer, her back collides with the door.

Draco laughs again. "I'm right, aren't I? You want to know this feeling so badly."

"Malfoy—"

"I can show you."

Hermione stares at him, her blank expression in competition with his vibrant one.

"Yeah," he whispers, "I'll show you. I'll make you feel things you'd never dream of feeling." He leans his left forearm against the door right next to her head. The proximity of his face from hers causes her breath to jump out of her mouth. They're inches away. Hermione can feel the space between them grow warm with the amalgamation of their deep and heavy breaths. "Would you like that, Granger?"

_Yes. She would._

"No," she responds through gritted teeth, "I want you to step back."

Draco sticks his tongue just outside of his mouth and bites it lightly. To Hermione's surprise, he uses his free hand to reach for the handle of the door. He pulls away from her, allowing her space to step forward and off of the door. Draco pulls the door open.

"My offer stands, should you ever want to indulge."

"So does mine," she retorts. "Let me know if you'd ever like to talk."

She huffs, the side of her lip curling as she relishes in receiving the last word. And as she slips under his arm and storms out of the bathroom, she doesn't dare look back.


	10. Chapter 10

**tw: drug use**

Hermione can't stop thinking about it. Can't stop considering all the things she could've done that day. And all the things that might've happened were she to do it—were she to just stand up to Aberfield. Were she to force Kingsley to listen to her in a serious setting, one where she could reestablish the bond they fostered so brilliantly when they fought alongside one another in the War, without Aberfield hovering and interrupting her every single time she tries to offer a point in the conversation.

She pinpoints the moment Aberfield began to crumble as the day he silenced them all—the first day he used magic against them. Tensions were running high, and Hermione just assumed that he was frustrated with their outbursts. But ever since then, Aberfield had changed, had become a figment of the man she knew before.

A week later, as she prepares to depart from the relatively calm meeting for the day, Hermione plays the scene following the most recent outburst in the seminar room over and over in her head.

_"Kingsley, it was highly unprofessional!"_

_"I did what I needed to do, Kingsley. Hermione doesn't understand my actions because she's too emotionally involved with the group."_

_"Emotionally involved?" Hermione shrieked. "Sure! I'm emotionally involved! If that means having gone to school with them for seven years and then watching them crumble under a drug addiction while we do absolutely nothing to help them, then sure! I'm exceedingly emotionally involved with the situation!"_

_"Ms. Granger, I recognize your concerns with Quincy's conduct—"_

_"With all due respect, I am past concerned," Hermione interjected. "I take great offense to his conduct. It is shocking to me that you tolerate something like this. And that out of nowhere, Mr. Aberfield has anointed himself as some sort of marshal of the law. You're..." she considered her words carefully, but they slipped out alongside her immense anger, aimed and pierced at Aberfield like daggers dipped in venom. "You're out of line, unbridled, and completely abusing your power. And your de-escalation skills are fucking rubbish! You resort to violence rather than conversation and listening to their needs!"_

_"Ms. Granger! Your language!"_

_She continued, unphased by the offense spewing from her mouth that was tinged with the sweet release of abject rancor. "I am frustrated and disturbed and tired of being gaslighted into believing that this isn't more of an issue! And I have the right mind to make a request that this program be disbanded immediately on the grounds that it is ineffective and doing more damage than good to everyone involved."_

_"That's out of the question, Hermione," Quincy answered with a raised voice, shaking his finger and head. "When you accepted your position to work at the Ministry, you took an oath and signed a contract that explicitly stated that you would train underneath the guise of a superior in your department of choice for three years. There is no possible way that the contract can be voided. Unless, of course, you'd like to give up your position in the Ministry entirely."_

_She couldn't breathe. Couldn't conquer the ire that boiled the blood inside her body. It spurted out like flames, hot and heavy with nothing but fury._

_She knew she signed the contract, knew that it meant a three-year commitment to training underneath a member of her desired department, knew that her apprenticeship was going to be long and full of challenges. But she never expected it to take this turn. Never expected something so horrific to happen. Never expected it would involve them._

_"You're going to hold me against my will, then? I'm forced to continue to humor this sad excuse of a program?" she screeched._

_"That is right!" Aberfield returned._

_"That's fucking rubbish! I'd like to be transferred—"_

_She stopped herself mid-sentence and remembered the Slytherins. If Hermione left the program, who knows what sort of protocols Aberfield would implement. Who knows how they'd respond, and what would happen if things were to get out of hand. She considered the possibility of staying involved and helping them in other ways, secretively._

_Hermione swallowed her sentence, and as Aberfield emitted a small sigh of relief, she grinded her teeth in anger._

_"Quincy." Kingsley redirected his attention back to Aberfield. "Is it true that you used an Incarcerous Spell against Mr. Malfoy?"_

_"In an effort to restrain his unbridled anger, yes," Aberfield answered without shame. "He was not listening to my instructions. He was causing a major disruption. He used grotesque profanities and completely undermined my authority."_

_"He was trying to explain to you why this program isn't working," Hermione insisted. "And we should listen to him. We should listen to them all and heed their concerns. This program won't work if we don't include their needs in the process."_

_"That's NOT how this works!" Aberfield yelled, leading Hermione to flinch at the sheer bellow of his usually calm voice._

_She had no idea where the man she once knew was. If he'd been trapped somewhere deep within his conscience, begging to be released. And she had no clue where his new ideas came from. Why he was being so unreceptive to the truth._

_"It is how it works!" she yelled back. "They need someone to listen! They need Healers! They need comprehensive help! I can't keep having this conversation!" She turned to Kingsley, desperation coloring her tired eyes. "Kingsley, please listen to me. Don't you trust me?"_

_"Hermione," Shacklebolt said, standing from his desk and offering her a kind smile. "Let me speak to Quincy for a moment. I appreciate your input. I really do. But I want to discuss protocol with him alone, now."_

_Hermione glared at them, presuming that she had failed yet again. She was convinced that Kingsley's words were full of empty affirmations. She lowered her eyes, turned, and left, feeling just as asphyxiated and rubbish as all the other times._

"So, Granger. Any fun plans tonight for this spooky holiday?"

Hermione looks up to see Adrian gazing at her. He taps his fingers against the wooden table in the seminar room as she recovers her satchel.

"No, I don't think so," Hermione responds lightly. "I'll probably just stay in and watch a movie with my cat—"

She realizes too late how bloody pathetic that sounds. Adrian's lips curl into a cheeky smile as he tries to restrain the bubbling laughter lodged in his throat.

"A movie with your cat," he repeats, jabbing the inside of his lower lip in order to conceal the laughter.

"Oh, stop," Hermione whispers, lowering her head and hiding the smile that creeps on her face.

"I remember that cat, actually," Adrian says, nodding his head as if to recall the memory. "Blindingly orange, to my recollection. Like a fat, fuzzy, perpetually angry carrot."

Hermione bursts into a fit of giggles, slapping her hand over her eyes. Adrian's laugh sounds like a sweet melody, and he soothes her flustered mind and emotions with the sound.

"So, let me get this straight. On what is considered to be the most enjoyable and exciting evening of the year, you're going to be sitting in your home tonight, cuddling your prehistoric cat and watching a movie?" Adrian asks with an eyebrow raise.

Hermione purses her lips. _Merlin, she's pitiable_. "That's... right."

Adrian snorts and pushes himself off the desk. Hermione catches her breath as Adrian breaks eye contact and rummages through his pocket. He pulls out a pack of cigarettes. Hermione inspects the white and red packet, watching as Adrian flips open the lid. Removing one of the cigarettes from the already half-empty box, he slides the smoke between his index and middle finger. Meeting Hermione's eyes again, he holds the cigarette up and asks, "I can still smoke in here, right?"

Hermione nods.

"I'll make it quick," Adrian says with a wink. "I suspect the muggles will change the law at some point. Too bad such matters automatically apply to the Wizarding World as well."

"I suspect within a few years they'll make it illegal to smoke indoors. It's quite a large public health issue," Hermione responds, cocking her head to the side.

"Yes, well, my body's been through hell and back already, so I don't think a little smoke will do that much damage to me," Adrian says cryptically.

Hermione lingers on that comment. As Adrian snaps his fingers and lights the cigarette in one swift motion, she remembers his visceral reaction to hearing about Unforgiveable curses.

A thought crosses her mind, one too overwhelming to dwell upon. She dispels it quickly.

The cigarette glows, and grey smoke pours out from the sides of Adrian's mouth in a pool of tempting vapor. Hermione watches, her mouth gaping in wonder and awe as Adrian pleasantly smokes in front of her. She wonders what it tastes like.

He removes the cigarette from his mouth, notched between his index and middle finger, and looks down at Hermione. He extends the cigarette, offering it to her. "Want a smoke, Granger?"

She'd by lying if she said she wasn't enticed.

Hermione shakes her head. "No, but thanks for the offer."

He shrugs and sticks it back between his lips. "One of these days, Granger, I'll share with you the best weed I've ever smoked in my life. And we can have that heart-to-heart you mentioned. You remember our deal, don't you?"

She smiles. "How could I forget?"

Another question pops out of her mouth: "Where do you get your... contraband from?"

"Oh, we're back to big vocabulary, are we?" he says, his cigarette still lodged in his mouth. When he exhales, the smoke trickles out of the opening of his lips and breezes across Hermione's face. She inhales lightly, her nostrils opening slightly to invite the scent into her body. "I procure it from a muggle acquaintance, someone I've known since after we left Hogwarts. He lives in Barnet. I'll occasionally apparate over there, obtain the goods, then pop back to Hogsmeade. It's quite an effective system."

"Sounds like it," Hermione acknowledges, slinging her bag around her shoulder and starting to step towards the front of the room. Adrian follows, still working on his cigarette. Hermione clears her throat and asks, "What are your plans for tonight, then?"

"Ahh," Adrian says playfully. "You mean, where will we engage in our illicit deeds and what will our—" he taps his chin with the center of his cigarette, "'nightly endeavors' look like?"

Hermione laughs with an exasperated sigh; he'll never live that phrase down. "Ha-ha," she responds sarcastically.

Adrian's lips gleam in a cheeky smile. "Doesn't everyone call you the brightest witch of our age?" 

Hermione's chest tightens. "That is what people say," she responds quietly, unsure if she really believes it herself anymore.

As they approach the door, Adrian hops in front of her and places himself in the threshold between the hallway and the room. He rests his hands against the sides of the door frame, leaning forward and down to get closer to Hermione.

"I think that you can probably figure out how to find us, then. Should you want to join."

Obscurely, Adrian glances over at his left arm where his faded Dark Mark lies dormant.

Hermione remembers what Aberfield said about the trackers—how they can reveal every place the host has ever been since implantation.

Her breath hitches as she pieces together what Adrian means.

He wants her to use the trackers.

With a brisk and perfect wink, Adrian pushes off the walls and paces backwards through the hallway, his eyes locked on Hermione's the entire time. The other Slytherins stand towards the end of the hallway, leaning against the walls and waiting for Adrian to join them.

"Hopefully we'll see you later tonight, Granger," Adrian calls out. He stops, raises his finger, and contemplates his next words. "I look forward to familiarizing you with our euphoric, nocturnal customs."

Hermione offers a small smile as Adrian gives her a salute and reconvenes with the group in a light jog, saying, "I'm coming! I'm coming! Sheesh!"

As the Slytherins depart, Hermione turns her head and looks down the other side of the hallway. Aberfield stands a few dozen feet away, speaking with another employee and pointing at words on loose papers atop his clipboard. She waits and watches as he walks down the hall with the other gentlemen, fully engaged in conversation. They turn the hallway and disappear.

She seizes the opportunity, unaware of her time frame but desperate to do her digging.

Pacing down the corridor and stopping a few doors down from the meeting room, Hermione finds herself outside of the wooden door to Aberfield's office. She reaches for the handle and tries to twist it, but it only budges a few inches before resisting her tug. It's locked. Sighing, she surveys the hallway again and hastily removes her wand. She hides it just behind the side of her body and whispers, " _Alohomora_."

The door clicks open, and she rushes in.

Hermione closes the large, creaky door behind her and peers around Aberfield's personal office. It is small and compact, decorated on the walls to her left and right with shelves of antique items and dozens of books. There is not one item out of place. It resembles a museum exhibit, as if each item is meticulously and carefully placed in its spot for a specific purpose and aesthetic.

She sees jars of ingredients, most of which she observes as belonging to Draught of Peace, but others she assumes are simply for his personal brewing. Books about potions, the history of magic, international relations, and public policy all line his shelves, organized by their subjects and then by the last name of the authors. Her eyes fall on a book about the conception of dark magic and then one about the First and Second Wizarding Wars. She approaches the books and inspects them closely; as her fingers trail the binding, she notices the intensely tattered and fragile nature of the binding and vellum. More tattered than the other books, at least, which are still almost perfect in their stitching from what she can deduce.

To the right of the books rest six small vials situated in what appears to be a spice rack. She approaches the vials and traces her fingers across them, her eyes glazing over the initials etched into a space on the wooden rack below each vial. She stumbles upon one labeled D.M.

As she reaches for it, she hesitates.

_Maybe... maybe that's not the best idea._

Something feels wrong about intruding on his memories, his thoughts, his breaths even. It all feels erroneous, like it teeters her moral compass a little too far from center.

She reaches for Adrian's instead, hoping that his clandestine suggestion to use their trackers would thus warrant consent to sifting through his memories. Popping open the cork of the vial, Hermione stares in awe as a blue and white beam of light mixed with an enchanting and gentle vapor slivers out of the container and levitates in the air before her.

She lists her wand and mutters the spell: " _Revela locum_."

The blue and white light expands, creating a hollow space in the middle of the mist. Her eyes adjust to the magic as pictures begin to fade in and out, displaying everywhere that Adrian has recently been. The images move backwards in time, starting at the meeting room where they just spoke, then shifting to the atrium of the Ministry, the living room of his apartment, his bedroom, the dark streets of Hogsmeade, a pub, and then a... a club? It almost resembles a speakeasy... some sort of nightclub illuminated by colorful neon lights, glitter, and the pulsing bodies of dancers and partygoers.

Displayed on the wall behind an elevated platform, she makes out a name: Amortentia.

Hermione inhales deeply, retracing the steps of Adrian and deducing the location of the club based on his recent movements.

She'll apparate to Hogsmeade in the evening and look for it among the shops.

" _Finite_."

Oddly, the charm does not respond to that command.

Unsure of exactly how to terminate the spell, Hermione tries her luck by simply lifting the vial up to the light. As if it harbors a mind of its own, it quickly seeps its way back into the vial.

_Good to know._

Shutting it with the cork, Hermione quickly places it back in the rack next to the other vials. She gathers her bearings and departs from Aberfield's office, checking the hallway for any sign of him.

Confirming his absence, Hermione slides out of the room and into the hallway. She brushes her hair off her face, takes a deep breath, and begins her descension to the atrium of the Ministry, her mind throbbing with the anticipation of tonight.

-

Hermione doesn't know what she is doing.

_Holy fuck. What is she doing here?_

She considers turning around, but as she stands outside of Amortentia, staring up at the sign in the middle of the brisk, October weather, she resolves to be brave. To summon that Gryffindor courage and fearlessly step inside the club.

Her feet coincide with her mind's deepest desires, and she treads forward through the entrance of the tavern.

Inside, she's confused. Because it's just a regular pub. It has wooden floors, rows of alcoholic bottles such as rum, gin, whiskey, and other forms of hard liquor lining the shelf in front of a large, horizontal mirror hung on the wall, and booths full of friends dressed in their costumes in celebration of the revered and beloved holiday.

But beneath her feet, she feels the floor pulse with life. She discovers the secret that this rather ordinary pub harbors. And she's determined to make her way down there.

Towards the back of the pub, she notices a man sitting on a stool in front of a staircase leading downstairs. She marches towards it, squeezing past the bodies of chattering friends and swaying inebriates and eventually stopping before the man. He looks up at her with a questionable look, as if he can tell that she is completely out of place, out of her comfort zone, exploring something she ought not to be.

"Good evening," she says, nodding her head slightly in the hopes that he'll reward her graciousness with admittance.

The guard stares her up and down. Doesn't even hide the way he cocks his eyebrow at her, reaffirming her fears that he'd see right through her naivety and immaturity in this specific setting.

"I'd like to—"

"I.D., please," he interrupts her, his voice low and coarse.

"Oh, yes, of course," she responds, reaching into the pocket of her black jeans and removing her wallet; she flashes her Wizard Identification card at the man. He glares at it, cinching his eyes and reading her information.

"Never seen you here before, Ms. Granger," he says, leaning back in his stool and crossing his buff arms over his chest, which consequently reveals an array of dark, thick tattoos lining his biceps and flowing down his arms.

Her heart leaps at the sight.

"Yes, well, I live in London. I don't really come up here much anymore. I actually never knew this place existed, which is odd because I only recently graduated from Hogwarts, so you'd think that—"

The man stares at her blankly as she rambles on.

She catches herself and clears her throat. "But tonight I'm meeting some friends."

 _Friends_. She called them her _friends._

He _hmpfhs_ and gestures his hand towards the staircase, saying, "Have a safe night, ma'am."

"Thank you," she responds with a soft smile, shoving her wallet back into her pocket and stepping forward. The heels of her black boots clank against the wooden steps as she descends into unknown terrain. The stairs coil around themselves like a screw, and she grasps the rail to her left as she treads carefully down the winding staircase. When she reaches the bottom, she is greeted by another guard and a large, steel door. The man opens the door without question, and suddenly the sound of low music and the sight of bright lights colonizes her senses in overwhelming capacities.

She enters the club. And with every bone and muscle in her body, she forces herself to walk in with confidence.

Her senses heighten immediately at the sights, sounds, and smells of the atmosphere. The familiar neon sign that hovered above the platform and music stand catches her eyes first, illuminating a bright red light over the horizon of the space. Around the room there are several other neon signs placed on the walls directly above several velvet loveseats and couches. She observes dozens of people engage in rather crude activities on those couches. There are no limits to hedonism within this club, no rules about who can frolic with who. The souls of the clubgoers mesh and amalgamate with one another in a series of fluid motions ranging from dancing to sexual pleasures. Hermione breathes in the atmosphere, sniffing the odor of lust and letting it seep into her brain, her body, and her fingers.

Her goal is to locate Adrian. He's the one who suggested she join them in the first place. Seeing anyone else first might be awkward—she didn't know what Adrian told them about her potential arrival, if anything.

As she steps down into the crowd of dancing bodies, Hermione notices Adrian's face just a few dozen feet away. He's not hard to pick out in a crowd; his height and distinct facial features give him away instantly.

Adrian's arms are in the air, and he sways romantically in the hot atmosphere with closed eyes, taking in every sensation through the pores of his skin. Hermione pushes through the crowd of people to get to him. As she lands at his side, she spontaneously taps his shoulder. He turns slowly, his eyes adjusting to her figure standing before him.

When he realizes it's her, Adrian smiles and speaks, slurring his words under the effects of his daze. "Ohhhhh Granger! Ohhh my stars and heavens, you've madeeee it!" He wraps his arms around her waist and pulls her in for a tight hug, lifting her slightly off the floor in an amiable hug. "Happy Halloweeeeen, you lovely little minx!"

"Yes, same to too!" she shouts over the music. Adrian sets her down and steps back, allowing Hermione the opportunity to inspect his outfit.

Adrian wears black slacks and a white dress shirt, but he's unbuttoned the top four buttons, which doesn't leave much to the imagination. The temporary emerald lights of the club highlight his broad and supple chest. He wears an unfastened black bowtie around his neck, which hangs down upon the lapels of his dress shirt. He looks well put together but also liberated under the influence of whatever drugs he is undoubtedly working under. "What's your costume, then?" Hermione asks.

Adrian draws his fist to his mouth and clears his throat into the top of his hand, as if to make a performance out of his costume reveal. He subsequently folds the ensemble of his middle, ring, and pinky fingers over themselves and points both his index fingers to the sky. His eyes dart to the left and right, then return to Hermione's eyes as he delivers a famous catchphrase in a distinct Sean Connery voice:

"I'm Bond. James Bond."

Hermione can't help the laughter; it topples out of her mouth in a fit of amusement. "Of course you are."

"And what about youuuu, missy?" Adrian drawls, gesturing to her outfit. "Where's your costume?"

Hermione peers down at her outfit: black jeans, a cream-colored, skin-tight, ribbed sweater, and her little black boots that reach just the top of her ankles.

"Let me guess who you areeee," he starts, stepping back and inspecting her as his fingers rub the skin below his chin in contemplation.

"I'll save you the trouble... I didn't dress up! I didn't realize that you were all coming in costumes," she admits, still shouting over the music blasting from all sides around them.

Hermione watches as Adrian blinks his eyes rapidly, trying to steady his likely hazy vision. "No costuuuume? I'll take care of that!" He snaps his fingers, and instantly a set of ginger cat ears materializes in his hand. He steps forward and places the headband carefully atop Hermione's wildly curly hair. "There," he says, stepping back and admiring his masterpiece, "Now you're dressed as that ancient kneazle of yours!"

Hermione and Adrian both chuckle, but his laughter is distinctly drawn out and over-exaggerated. She wonders for a moment what sort of high he is experiencing—whether it's his usual drug of choice, that being the cocaine, or perhaps something stronger, more prone to enable hallucinations and slurred speech. She doesn't know enough about muggle drugs to deduce her observations, though. "That's a wonderful gesture, Adrian. I'm sure Crookshanks would be happy to know that he's famous enough to be my Halloween costume!"

"I'm sure him and I would get along very well," Adrian responds with a bright smile. "Now, can I get you a drink? There's a bar on that wall behind you with plenty of options. Or, I do have something a little more fun, if you're interested."

Her stomach flips at the insinuation. "What, um, what sort of drugs are you—"

"Ohhhh shit! Do my eyes deceive me? Or is that Granger in the flesh looking as ravishing as ever?"

Hermione turns abruptly and sees Theo stumbling towards her, Pansy's hand clasped in his. They harbor the same sort of euphoric and dazed expression as Adrian, one characterized by their dilated pupils, slurred words, and sweaty foreheads. Hermione studies their outfits, construing their identities for the evening as principal characters from the movie _Pulp Fiction_. With her short, jet black hair, Pansy exudes the perfect Mia Wallace; she complements her natural, physical similarities with the character with a white Oxford, unbuttoned to expose a black, lace bra beneath it, black pants, a cigarette lodged between her lips, and what appears to be fake blood dripping from her nose. Theo wears a similar outfit but sports a bolo tie as well to exemplify Vincent's character; his shirt hangs open as well, further than Adrian's, so that the bolo tie rests upon his bare chest.

They stumble forward and place their hands upon Hermione's shoulders, smiling and welcoming her to the club.

"Holy Salazar, _Granger_! What the bloody hell are you doing here!" Pansy slurs, removing the lit cigarette from her mouth and smiling as big and radiant as the sun itself.

"Oh, Granger, honestly," Theo interrupts, "you look absolutely stunning tonight. Your hair is quite possibly your best feature! Don't you think so, Pansy?"

Pansy giggles sweetly. "Oh, I loveee her hair!" She reaches for Hermione's locks and toys with them in her free fingers. "It's gorgeous! I wish mine could be so voluminous!"

" _Outstanding_ word choice, Parkinson!" Adrian interjects. "You should join mine and Hermione's gameeee, where we try to outwit one another with who can use the biggest word in a sentence!" 

_Merlin_ , Hermione thinks, _they're high out of their minds._

More familiar faces start to swarm the group; Blaise and Daphne stumble over, their hands clutched tightly and their faces inches apart as they giggle and roll their heads around in pure bliss. Daphne wears a cropped, black tank top, a black leather mini-skirt, black boots, and a red cape with the hood pulled over her braided, blonde hair. Blaise sports grey, wool sweater and black slacks, topped off with a painted nose and a headband with furry ears atop his head. Undoubtedly portraying another famous duo.

"Granger! Oh my _word_!" Daphne exclaims in a shriek, jumping forward and throwing her body into Hermione's arms. "What a surprise! Oh, this is the best day _ever_! Blaise! Blaise! Do you see who it is? Oh, I just adore her so much!"

Blaise steps forward, and Hermione perceives his beautiful smile, one she's only ever seen when he looks at Daphne. "So glad to see you outside that bloody seminar room, Granger!" he shouts, wrapping his arms around Daphne's waist and lugging her off of Hermione, much to her pouting and fussing about being "pulled away from her new best friend!"

"Yes, well, Adrian mentioned that you'd be here tonight, and I thought I'd stop by to see you all," Hermione responds, careful to construe the truth slightly so as not to mention her use of the tracking devices to find them. She treads lightly, unsure of their reaction; although, to be fair, it seems as though they're all rather giddy and blissful anyway.

"Oh, where is that bloody sourpuss," Theo shouts, scanning the crowd for the last remaining member of their group. "I just know he'd be thrilled to see you, Granger."

Hermione's jaw drops in dismay, but she quickly tightens it back up and purses her lips. _What does Theo mean by that—_

"Oh, there he is!" Daphne exclaims, pointing her finger to a tall, moving figure several feet away, slowly making its way towards the group.

When she sees him, her breath catches in her throat.

He inches closer to them, and his costume reflects boldly off of the multi-colored strobe lights, most notably under the crimson shade. Draco wears black slacks and a white dress shirt, stained with red splotches of fake blood. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, and, just like everyone else, the buttons of his shirt are practically fully undone, exposing those mesmerizing tattoos painted across his body. There are drops and splatters of fake blood scattered around his skin too, covering his head, arms, neck, and chest.

Hermione isn't entirely sure what his costume is, but _Merlin_ he looks rugged, dangerous, and completely alluring underneath the neon lights.

"Always has to make a big entrance, that one," Adrian leans over into Hermione's ear and mutters.

Draco pushes through the others and looms over Hermione, at least a head taller than her. The group slowly disperses as the atmosphere around Draco and Hermione slows down, creating a bubble of slowed time and sluggish movements around them.

"Granger," he slurs, towering over her and looking down into her eyes, staring into her soul, tempting her with his dazzling look to do something she might regret. "You've stumbled into rather unwarranted territory, haven't you?"

Hermione stutters over her words. Nothing come out; her lips simply quiver in the drawn-out silence she is creating.

Draco chuckles, completely fixated on this sight of Hermione that he loves—almost worships—so much. "What brings you here?"

Hermione finds her voice. "Well, Adrian mentioned something about you all going out tonight—" 

"And how'd you know where to find us?" he taunts, inching closer.

There's no bloody chance she's telling _him_ about using the trackers. She resolves to lie. "Oh... I just—"

He suddenly leans in right next to her ear and whispers with a fake tone of surprise, "Did you... did you _track_ us, Granger?"

As Draco pulls away to witness her expression—her being caught in utter culpability—Hermione nods.

"Yes, thought so. You naughty girl, using those tracking devices against us."

Hermione shakes her head. "I shouldn't have done that, I'm sor—"

"It's just like I said... you can't stay away, can you?"

Hermione is lost in his eyes—in the way his pupils are enlarged in a deep, black hue. Even through the strobe lights and the dark chamber of the club, she plainly observes just how dilated his pupils are. He licks his lips enticingly, drawing her interest in further.

"The temptation is just too strong, isn't it? You just had to come here and find out what we look like when we do this."

The drugs dance around his eyes as Hermione stares deep into them. Deep.

"What...um..." Hermione attempts to say, but the music assiduously blares through her eardrums. She raises her voice and leans towards Draco. "What exactly have you... taken?"

Draco laughs, sticking his tongue out of his mouth and biting down on it. He begins to sway his head with the flow of the music, and then his arms swing, and then his entire body is flowing ethereally to the rhythm of the music. He ignores her question and begins to dance instead.

"Why don't you come find out?"

Hermione's breath hitches in her throat. No, not even there. Her breath barely makes it to her throat—it's lodged in her diaphragm, constricting her stomach in a fit of wonder and temptation. Draco steps back further and further into the crowd towards the middle of the dance floor, but he simultaneously beckons Hermione to join him with his index and middle finger, flaunting a seductive gesture as if to demand that she follows him.

Of all the times she's followed Draco, this moment feels more enticing than any other one.

She obeys him. Stalks him through the crowd as he naturally parts the sea of sweaty bodies around them. Their eyes are locked the entire time, as if he's hypnotized Hermione. And each time a strobe of light hits his face, Hermione becomes even more enthralled with the possibilities of tonight. The way which Draco's face is illuminated under emerald and cherry beams of light strengthens the spell he has on her.

It blinds her, and she teeters on the precipice of her morals.

Draco halts in the epicenter of the dance floor and stands perfectly still around the storm of dancers surrounding him. About six feet away from him, Hermione freezes and gazes at him. Watches as the corner of his lips turns up in a seductive smile and his fingers rise again to summon her towards him with three slow flicks in the air.

Her feet take over and carry her towards him without her mind even processing what she's doing. She's five feet away, then four, then three, two, one—

Draco hisses between his teeth and grabs Hermione by her shoulders, tugging her towards him to close that last foot of space between them and spinning her around abruptly so that her back is pressed against his chest. She lets out a small whimper, purely out of shock, but as she feels Draco's chin rest upon her left shoulder, his breath float across her throat, and his chest crowd against her back, she finds herself sinking into his grip, fully enamored by his electric touches against her sensitized body.

His fingers drag down the side of her body, tracing every inch of her figure. His hands spare no inch of her as they pulse up and down her sides, until thy finally clasp around her hips. Hermione lets out a quick and unsteady breath, one saturated with a jolt of pleasure.

"My, my, my," he hums, his lips briefly streaking over the top of Hermione's ear, "looks like we both have a problem keeping our hands off each other."

In tune with the music, Draco starts swaying his hips left and right, coaxing Hermione with his hands to follow his movements. At first, Draco orchestrates the movements, tugging Hermione with him as a way to lure her in. But within several seconds, Hermione capitalizes on the balanced rhythm of the music, and her body once again takes control without consulting her mind. She moves against him, her senses tripling as their bodies mesh in one fluid dance.

"You are a curious little thing, aren't you?" he continues whispering in her ear as they dance. "I could tell... in the bathroom... when you watched me do what I did."

She exhales as he speaks upon the pulse of her neck.

"I want you to say what I did."

"What?" she breathes out.

He grips his fingers around her hips a little tighter, digging his nails into her denim, and he sucks in a sharp breath through his clenched teeth. Pressing up against her tighter, Hermione can feel every curve and dip of his body mold into hers. " _Say it_. I want to hear you _say what I did_ , Granger."

"You... you snorted cocaine—"

"Yes. I did. Like I do every fucking day. Like it's my fucking medicine." Hermione's mouth hangs open in shock. "And you watched. You watched like a good girl."

Hermione crooks her neck to the side ever so slightly so that she can watch him out of the corner of her eye. She looks up at him with her bold, almond eyes, and their gaze connects just as a blue light darts past his face, reflecting the glimmer of his eyes that first allured her years ago.

Draco snarls with a wicked smile. "And that turned you on, didn't it?" he whispers, his tongue flicking around his mouth and scraping the bottom of his top layer of teeth.

Hermione doesn't answer. Doesn't want to admit how enticing it looked that day. Doesn't want to admit how inviting Draco Malfoy looks this very second.

Her body responds instead as her right hand slides over his and forces it deeper against her side. 

"Answer me," he growls, and Hermione feels his fingers tense and contort beneath hers.

She nods frantically, completely wrapped around his finger in this moment of seduction. Willing to spill any secret and any desire she harbors about him. Receptive and open. Free.

"Here's what I think, Granger," he continues, blowing cool air across the tip of her earlobe. "You relish in the fact that you know almost everything about everything in the world. That you can conjure any spell, any charm, any hex you want in seconds with the flick of your wand." Hermione closes her eyes, drowning out everything else so that she can simply take in his raspy voice, cement it into her mind and replay it over and over again like a record. "You know everything—except for this. _This_ feeling." Hermione's breath catches in her throat at Draco's inept remark. "And the best part of it all? You desperately want to know what the drugs feel like in your little body. How they'll cling onto your veins, seep into your bloodstream, and dance upon your muscles the same way we are right now. I know you want to feel that."

_Merlin, help her... She does._

"Would you like me to show you what this feels like?"

The feelings within her divulge and converge in a battle. On the one hand, she considers their desperate need for comprehensive rehab, and how indulging in the drugs with them would only enable their addiction.

On the other hand, the temptation to try—to indulge in something she's never experienced before—is so _fucking_ strong that she could implode with her want for it.

"I don't know..." she exhales, but her body says something else. It continues to move against Draco's effortlessly, like it was molded to fit against his. At the feeling of Draco's hands sliding across her stomach and wrapping around her torso, Hermione's head loosens at the neck and falls back into his right shoulder like a puzzle piece fitting into place.

"I think you do know," he whispers, his hot breath filling the cavity of her ear.

She can't help herself; she whimpers again at the sensitive feeling, the way his hot breath seduces her to just _try it._

That whimper does it for him—knocks him over the edge. Draco spins her around at the waist, throwing her arms over his shoulders and staring down at her with a look of immense hunger, like he could tear her apart right then and there. He places his forehead against her and forces their fronts together. She sees the drugs dance in those gorgeous irises. And her left hand begins to explore his body, trailing down his neck and upon his cold, bare chest. Her fingers run over a splotch of fake blood splattered across his pecs, and she rests her fingertips against his heart, feeling it beat at an alarmingly fast rate.

 _This... this is wrong_ , she thinks. _He's... he's high. He's not totally lucid._

"I can make you feel so fucking great. On top of the world," he continues, biting his lower lip. Hermione swears the sight makes her knees buckle. "Is that something you want, Granger?"

She doesn't respond.

"Aren't you fascinated by this?"

"Well—"

"Don't you want to just drown everything else out and feel this euphoric? Feel this euphoric with _me_?"

Everything around them seems to slow down, pulse in half the normal speed as he stares at her. She's enticed, intrigued, desperate to feel something further than anything she's ever felt before.

His face is inches from hers when she notices him removing something from his pocket. He holds up a dime bag in the limited space between their faces, with two little green pills in it. He dips his long fingers inside, pulls out a pill, shoves the baggie back inside his pocket, and holds the solitary pill up to her face.

She stares at it. At the possibilities it harbors.

Hermione reaches for the pill, but Draco abruptly withdraws his hand, holding it behind his head to tease her.

He tuts, his wet tongue contacting the roof of his mouth in several flicks. "Not so fast, Granger," he slurs with a menacing shake of the head. "If you want it, you'll have to come and get it this way."

To her surprise, Draco sticks his tongue out and places the pill right on the tip of it.

Hermione can't breathe. The atmosphere of the club is suffocating her, and Draco's temptation completely revokes any traces of oxygen left.

She needs to share his oxygen. Needs to press her lips against his in order to not suffocate.

He curls the tip of his tongue slightly and stares at Hermione. And his tongue hangs there, out in the open space between them, waiting for her to give in. Connect hers against. Steal the pill right from that wet spot.

"I shouldn't," she whispers, unsure if he can even hear her, unsure if she is addressing him or herself when she says it.

Draco chuckles, leaning in closer. Hermione can feel his hot breath everywhere.

She wants to take it. Wants to be able to _breathe_ again.

"You should, Granger," Draco manages to slur without dropping the pill from its spot on his tongue.

Hermione opens her mouth, fully prepared. The pill is slowly dissolving atop his wet tongue; it's now or never.

Centimeters now. They're centimeters apart. Hermione opens her mouth, and the inside becomes wet with desire and hunger.

They're practically exchanging air as their mouths hang open just centimeters from one another. Were someone to stumble into her back and push her forward on accident, Hermione would be thrown into his arms and mouth, and then that would be it. She would have sealed the deal. Created a mess beyond anything she could imagine.

She doesn't need a mess. Doesn't need to make things more complicated for everyone. Doesn't need to sully the program more than it already has been.

She pulls away.

"I can't..." she says, stumbling backwards slightly.

Visibly frustrated, Draco flicks his tongue back and knocks the pill back into his throat smoothly. He grits his teeth as his throat gulps the pill. "You're a little fucking tease, aren't you?" he growls at her, and Hermione swears she can feel the vibrations from the rasp of his vocal cords crash against her face.

She stares at him slack-jawed as she inspects her surroundings, finally released from her daze.

_Fuck, what is she doing here? This is... this is completely inappropriate._

_She shouldn't have come._

"I'm sorry," she says, turning around and darting away.

Her breath is unsteady and her brain pounds against her skull as she processes what just happened. What she almost did.

She stumbles to the exit, refraining herself from looking back, not even daring to imagine how Draco is probably glaring at her with rampant fury right now. Pushing past the crowd of bodies around her, Hermione jumps up the platform and bursts through the door, leaving the hedonistic utopia and everything within it behind, subjecting it to a distant memory only she and Draco would share.

Draco watches her run through the crowd to escape him and he clenches his jaw tighter than ever. His teeth feel like jelly, like they'll sink into one another without any resistance. His tongue tingles with the dissipation of the ecstasy; he runs his sopping tongue over his teeth and watches as Granger frantically pushes her way through the crowd and towards the exit.

His breath becomes unsteady with anger as the void of her lips becomes more obvious to him.

She's flustered, yes. And he loves that. Savors the sight of it. But she also rejected him. Left him gawking in the air like a fucking prick.

He lets his eyesight give way to the ecstasy within him. It becomes hazy under the rush of dopamine and serotonin pulsing through his body, making him grow warm and roused with the desire for someone—anyone—to pleasure him.

If not Granger, then someone else. There was always someone else. He could look left and right and there would always be plenty of options in this club.

His lips grow dry as he eyes the women around him. None of them look as enticing as that fucking swot, that bitch, that god damn mudbl—

Little arms find their way around Draco's shoulders. He looks over to his left and sees Pansy gazing at him, the same look of haze and elation in her eyes. Daphne approaches his front and juts her fingers around his stomach and chest, poking him with a sweet laugh.

"Dance, Draco," Daphne whispers. "Enjoy the night while it's still young."

"Relaaax," Pansy drawls. "You look far too tense, Malfoy."

Draco groans but ultimately gives in, releasing the tension in his clenched jaw and lips and sticking his tongue out into the air. He shakes his body, much to the delight of his friends. Pansy and Daphne cheer and scream and jump, and they all release themselves to the purpose of the club, the whole reason they began coming to this place.

To indulge in their lust and desires and escape their perpetual pain. 

Draco can't tell whether Granger alleviates or multiplies that pain. Whether it's best that she left when she did or if it would've been better for her to stay.

He aches for her. Wishes he wouldn't, but he does. He can't help it.

As he dances until dawn the next day, he only thinks about the way her body molded against his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you all enjoyed the ~sexual tension~ because I sure did hehehe


	11. Chapter 11

When Hermione apparates back to her apartment later that evening, she immediately collapses face-first onto her indigo sofa, reaches for her wand from the back pocket of her jeans, casts a quick _Muffliato_ around her, and screams into one of her grey pillows.

The squeal emanates from high within her chest, centered near her sternum. She doesn't even know how she is able to center it there; it comes with such intensity that she can feel her own heart strain underneath the pressure. And the reverberation of the scream seeps into the velvet throw pillow, practically setting the fuzzy filling inside of it on fire. As her hands begin to shake with an indistinguishable emotion, she grips the sides of the pillow and sinks her fingernails into the fabric.

She's furious at herself. Screams into the poor, tortured cushion yet again in one perfect mesh of all the confusing and frustrating parts of her life, as if screaming could somehow dispel all her stress and anger and implant it straight into the velvet cushion. She could thereby become just as inanimate and lifeless as the cushion itself.

_Wouldn't that be something?_ If only there was a way that she could exert that built up anger and channel it into something else. Something productive, something with her hands, something that could relieve every inch of her being that succumbed to the hexed lines of this evening. The lines she almost crossed, the things she almost did.

Hermione's mind begins to reel, as usual. She can't help it; she ruminates through every part of her life that vexes her.

There's Aberfield, who reeled her in like bait this summer to work for him, only to unexpectedly downsize her to his assistant. Who now holds her captive at her own post, refusing to let her go except at the expense of her future career at the Ministry.

There's Kingsley, the man who trusted her during the war and hired her at the Ministry to put forth the same ideals which they fought for. Who now effectively silences her, bending to Aberfield's influence, as if he's not the Minister of Magic himself—one of the most powerful men in the magical world. As if he doesn't have the power to put an end to this circus of a rehabilitation program.

There's Draco. The way he looks at her, toys with her, makes her insides churn with both frustration and pleasure.

But who's to say whether those feelings aren't simply two edges of the same sword?

The way he looked at her tonight—like he was undressing her with his mind and preparing to devour her whole—haunts her. She reimagines in the scene in her mind against the black backdrop of her closed eyes, recalling the lights, the sounds, the smells. As if he's still behind her, Hermione can feel his breath lingering all over her neck, the chemical molecules of his cologne and scent surfacing upon and suffocating her body and mind.

She's angry at him for successfully seducing her.

She's angry at herself for that, too. For willingly playing along with his advances when it was clear that he was high, not lucid, unable to distinguish between right and wrong. That was... unacceptable. She knew better. She absolutely knew and deserved better.

Hermione has felt strong hatred for a few people in her life. But in this moment, all the odium she's ever fostered simply centers around Draco and spreads throughout her body, one part at a time.

Her fingertips feel it first. She remembers where they were moments ago and how they harbored a mind of their own as they strapped and coalesced around his, forcing them tighter around her hips. Then, the hatred travels up her arms, where he imprinted tentative yet deliberate traces of his fingertips, colored her tantalized limbs with the reciprocation of his seduction. It climbs to her shoulders, where his chin rested as he cupped her waist and drew her further into his beating body. Then it's in her throat, her flushed cheeks, her ears where he whispered sensuous and irresistible things to her—

_Don't you want to feel this euphoric with me?_

She yells again into the pillow under the safeguard of the _muffliato_. Screams in order to drown out his voice in her head. His voice, which successfully penetrated the fortifications of her mind.

_How was he able to do it?_

Maybe that wasn't the right question. Draco had slipped his way into her mind without forcing it. The fact of the matter is that Hermione let him in, granted him access, allowed him to infiltrate her shrouded emotions. He might've taken advantage of them, but Hermione let him in; she wanted him to explore her.

Draco is everywhere on her. She can feel the spots of her body that he touched shiver with desire and yearning for his hands again. Simultaneously, in those spots where he is now just a ghost, animosity fills the void. Bitterness for the way he was able to tempt her, sway her, seduce her into softening herself onto his chest.

Hermione groans as she lifts her head off of the pillow and twists it to the right, her eyes falling upon her fireplace and bookshelves. Her body remains prone on the couch like the trunk of a collapsed tree, unwilling to move an inch. Nothing could lift her from this spot. She lies there, sulking in the way the evening played out, in how she morphed into someone who could be so easily tempted. It would take a procession of visitors and immense temptations to lure her off the couch. Her body is already imprinted on it perfectly, anyway.

When her ears perceive a soft purr from the ginger cat that paces along the bottom of the couch, she deems it an exception to her perpetual somberness.

With minimal energy, Hermione unlodges her arm from underneath her torso and slumps it over the edge of the couch, wiggling her fingers to invite Crookshanks to nestle his furry head into her soft hand. He immediately accepts her gift, nuzzling and purring around her fingers. Hermione pushes back against her exhaustion and begins to scratch at his fur.

"Alright... come here, you," she mutters, lugging herself out of her position and sitting upright. Extending her arms forward as an invitation, she prepares herself as Crookshanks bends his stumpy legs and leaps forward into her lap, spinning thrice and treading upon her thighs before finally settling down on her legs in a neutral position, his paws curled up under him and his furry tail wrapping around the front of his stomach so that the tip rests just above his face. Occasionally, his tail lifts up and drops back down, a sign of his complete content upon her legs.

She somehow falls asleep minutes later, the sights and sounds of Amortentia penetrating her dreams all through the night.

-

Hermione resolves to face him today.

Not just face him. That word spares the tantamount levels of anger she holds towards him.

Confront him is a more accurate description of her intentions. Dig deep past the walls in his mind and unravel his unclear motives.

She's gone over what she will say to him in her head every day since that night. Thought about it all weekend, wrote down talking points, organized her discombobulated thoughts into separate emotional compartments—one for anger, one for confusion, and one for...

An emotion she doesn't even know how to describe. How does she pinpoint the feeling he stirs within her? He successfully wrapped his fingers around her, mentally _and_ physically. What does that denote? Lust? Temptation? Intrigue?

Hermione just wants to get it over with. Wants to put a stop to everything before it goes too far.

Because there's a sensation sweltering inside her stomach, subsiding deep within the apex of her darkest desires, crawling its way around her insides and unlocking every craving she's ever dreamt of, ever tried to subdue and control for the sake of her social image.

Draco edged his way into that forbidden and clandestine part of herself on Halloween. Crept his way back into her life and even further into her subconscious, the part of her which she's always tried to subvert because of the responsibilities and attributes she believed she had to abide by. Draco unlocked the part of her she had yet to even explore herself. The part of her she desperately _wants_ to explore.

But today's not that day. And Draco _cannot_ be that person.

_He can't possibly be that person... can he?_

Hermione wonders what it's like to be Draco. To harbor such resentful outlooks towards everyone around him. To not give a shit about what other people think. To successfully orchestrate chaos with the blink of an eye.

She resolves to channel that energy. Play his game. And _win._

With only three minutes before the day's meeting commences, Hermione stands outside of the seminar room, leaning against the wall to the right of the door and waiting for the Slytherins to arrive, patiently anticipating her moment to pull Draco aside and confront him. She'd be lying if she said she wasn't a little bit nervous; her twitchy fingers and slightly unsteady breaths are testaments to that.

Disrupting her thoughts is the sound of an office door shutting a few doors to the left. She lifts her head and watches as Aberfield's hand falls from the handle on his door. With his other hand, he holds a clipboard with a stack of papers on it, staring down and mouthing whatever words rest upon the paper as he paces towards the room.

The moment Aberfield looks up and locks eyes with her, Hermione decides to practice being Draco. And who better to use as her guinea pig than the man whom Draco would probably do anything to annoy and vex with his tempestuous game.

Aberfield halts on the other side of the door and leans himself against the wall in a similar fashion as Hermione, creating a symmetrical picture in the middle of the hallway. She stares forward, unwilling to make eye contact with him at the moment. She's too busy considering what it is she could say to throw him over the edge.

"How are you today, Hermione?"

She huffs out of her nose, her nostrils flaring with indignation and a newfound bode of stubbornness.

Aberfield clears her throat and tries to address her again. "Might we be able to put aside our differences for a moment and have a conversation?"

_Better start practicing._

"Yes, why don't we?" she responds, shifting to lean her left shoulder against the wall and crossing her arms over her chest. "What would you like to talk about?"

Aberfield detects the sarcasm in her tone immediately but resigns to just continue conversing in a plain tone. "I know you don't agree with my methods—"

"Wherever did you get that idea?" she responds satirically.

"Oh, Hermione, don't you start acting like _them_ now—"

"Like whom? Like my peers?" she questions, raising her eyebrows. "Bold of you to assume I wouldn't start picking up on the traits of people you claim that I am so emotionally attached to!"

"I'm going to calmly ask you to not speak to your supervisor in this way—"

"Or what? You'll treat me like how you treat them? You'll fire me?"

_Merlin, now she knows why Draco does this. It feels absolutely delightful._

"No, I wouldn't that. Because I am confident that there are a million reasons that you wish to remain in this position. Would you like for me to fire you and then consequently blacklist you from any further jobs at the Ministry? I am aware, from our many discussions over the past few months, that you want to be the Minister of Magic in the future—do you think that will become a reality if you are fired from this program on the grounds that you were being insubordinate and disrespectful?"

Hermione's jaw clenches. _Right, so, she hasn't perfected this just yet._

"And what of your dear friends?" Aberfield continues, sounding rather smug. "Don't you want to be a part of their rehabilitation? Don't you want to put this on your resume, or one day see on the Daily Prophet the following headline: 'Gryffindor's Golden Girl Saves the Wizarding World Once Again with Successful F.D.E.R.E.' Doesn't that feat make this all worth enduring for the next several months?"

_That's... that's exactly what she is trying to avoid. She wants to avoid redirecting this program to be about her. It should be about_ them.

She reverts back to her logic for a moment—just a moment.

"At the expense of their comfortableness and privacy? Their wishes? Quincy, that's not the point of this program. It's not about elevating our feats—it's about helping them. And anyway, they have to want to get better for this to work. And as much as I want to support them, I don't want to force them to do anything. There's a much better way to go about doing this."

"And there's a practical way," Aberfield retorts, knocking his fist against the stack of papers and creating two soft _thuds_. "The Ministry is fully equipped to handle such a situation—"

"Quincy, for _fuck's_ sake—"

"Hermione! Please mind your language—"

"I began working with you because I perceived your aims to be pure and well-intentioned. I dedicated my time to you and the program because I believed that we would actually do some decent work. Because I was there, at Hogwarts, and I watched them every day walk around the corridors looking abjectly miserable. I wanted to help them then, but things were complicated. Now that those boundaries have been shed, and we're no longer distinguished by our houses, by arbitrary traits and personas, all I want is to do what I should've done then. And that doesn't involve dehumanizing and degrading them."

She inhales deeply, wanting to steady herself for her next comment.

"Malfoy was right—you don't want to help them. You want to control them."

"They need discipline," Aberfield responds. "I believe in second chances, Hermione. I believe in giving people an opportunity to restore their character. And I want that for them, just as I wanted it for their parents. Do you think it was easy making all those appeals to have their parents released from Azkaban? Begging the Ministry to grant them all second chances at life? It almost didn't work. But because of my comprehensive plan and compromised terms, I was able to do it. I want the same thing for your friends. But if they are going to be selfish, greedy, and blatantly resentful—"

"You forced them here against their will!" she responds. "That's... that's not the proper way to rehabilitate them. They have to want it."

"Their parents wanted it!" Aberfield retorts.

Hermione's mind nearly combusts into flames as she yells back, "Their parents _aren't_ addicted to _drugs_!"

Aberfield falls mute. Whether it's on account of her enraged screech or the candid content of her observation, Hermione is uncertain. But she takes advantage of the silence and continues to press for her argument.

"A Healer. They need a Healer, Quincy. Someone to help them. If I'm going to be stuck working for you, then I intend to do things the right way. The ethical way. Employ methods that don't involve using magic against them, or holding them against their will, or forcing them to do anything they don't explicitly state that they want to do. How can you argue against that?"

Hermione revels in her success—the one she's been pursuing for so long against Aberfield. His silence speaks volumes. And she wastes no time asking one more pressing question; she doesn't know why she feels compelled to ask him this, but there's a query nagging around her brain that she is fraught to understand. It pops out of her mouth and punctures the void between them:

"What is it that they've done to make you harbor so much anger towards them?"

Something twitches underneath his face. It's like Hermione has just uncovered a tick, an itch, something vexing Aberfield to his core. She notices his lip quiver for just a brief second, but that palpitation is long enough to act as a window to his deepest and obscurest thoughts and intentions. Her intuition to ask that question was right. She struck a nerve.

But before she can inquire further, a familiar rumble of voices echoes behind her. Hermione turns sharply and witnesses the group of Slytherins trollop gleefully down the corridor towards the room.

Hermione has come to recognize now when they're under the influence of an upper and when they're not. She can especially discern it with one look at Daphne; today, Daphne's face is vibrant, bright pink, and full of life, a stark contrast to the state she appears in when she undergoes a withdrawal. Theo and Pansy touch one another tentatively, pressing their fingers against one another's waists and engaging in fits of giggles.

Even Draco displays a smile... a wicked one, but a smile, nonetheless.

It's undeniable—the Slytherins have treated themselves to a morning dose of cocaine.

At the sight of Hermione before him, Theo smiles and throws his arms to the side in excitement. "Granger! You disappeared on us on Halloween, where'd you—"

Hermione rashly raises her eyebrows and attempts to shake her head as inconspicuously as possible, desperate for Theo to not finish his sentence; with Aberfield standing a few feet away, she fears that he will hear about her conduct and reprimand her in some way. Theo notices as quickly as Hermione tries to hush him; he forms an 'o' shape with his mouth, contemplating a valid way to reshape his sentence.

"We missed you at the... uh... at the uh... the—"

"At the Fountain of Magical Brethren!" Daphne chimes in, nodding her head voraciously. "Where we were supposed to meet after the seminar!" She nudges Blaise with her right elbow. "Right, Blaise?"

"Yeah, of course," Blaise adds. "When we were going to talk about..." Blaise falters, combing through his mind for an excuse. "Well... Adrian remembers, doesn't he?"

The tension within Hermione subsides, and she blushes with appreciation as she realizes that they're all trying to cover for her. The sight of it is actually rather enjoyable that she discharges her anger to relish in the fresh approach the Slytherins take to her.

"I sure do," Adrian answers with a mischievous grin. "We were planning on conferring about the appropriate methods for adopting a pet. As you may or may not know, Aberfield, Granger has this adorable little kneazle, and Malfoy—" Adrian wraps his right arm around Draco's shoulder and tugs him him— "has always wanted to get one of his own—"

"Oh, you're shitting me, Pucey," Draco grumbles, shaking and lowering his head in total abjection.

That's all it takes for Hermione to feel angry yet again. Her initial fury resurfaces; she stares him down.

"Actually, Malfoy, I'd like to speak to you more about that. Might we go somewhere to talk?" she asks boldly, straightening her shoulders.

The group becomes visibly intrigued by Hermione's request. The expressions they share lead Hermione to wonder if Draco told them what happened that night, or—even worse—if they _saw_ what she did, witnessed her allowing Draco to bind himself around her and fall victim to his wondrous caresses. She had been far too mortified to say goodbye to them. She'd apparated back to her flat without even saying goodbye.

_Who knows what Draco has told them?_

Aberfield steps forward, hesitant to allow them to wander off. "We have a meeting to get to, Hermione—"

"This shouldn't take long," Hermione interjects, still glaring at Draco. "And it's quite time sensitive, actually. I've spoken to Mr. Malarkey from the Magical Menagerie, and he has informed me that he has the _perfect_ kneazle for Malfoy, but that arrangements need to be made as soon as possible. Nice and cuddly, with lots of white, puffy fur, and a gigantic personality—"

Pansy chortles, and they all exchange looks of amusement.

Draco rolls his eyes and huffs indignantly. "Right, Granger. Let's discuss that, shall we?"

"I really must insist that you—"

"You know, Aberfield," Adrian automatically interjects, leaping forward and wrapping his arm around Aberfield's slim shoulders, "I'm actually quite looking forward to a lesson today. I'm feeling revitalized and excited for the possibilities of discussion! What do you have in mind for us today, big guy?"

Adrian begins to guide Aberfield inside the room, and the others follow along, interjecting their own forms of affirmations to distract him.

As they all enter the classroom, Adrian turns back and gives Hermione a wink.

It's an enigma as to why they're being so helpful. It's obvious that they're dreading the program—they always do. What had changed that made them want to help her?

_Merlin... what, if anything, did Draco say to them about that night?_

Unwilling to risk Aberfield interrupting their discussion, Hermione reaches for the metal handle of the door and pulls it shut quietly, hoping that Adrian and the others will keep him occupied as she speaks to Draco.

_Speak. That's an understatement._

"Kneazles," Draco snarls. "What a pathetic excuse for pulling me aside to talk—"

"You know exactly why I'd like to speak to you, Malfoy," Hermione interrupts, her lips slanted in a purposeful frown.

At the sight of her flustered and furrowed face, Draco intentionally counters her expression and slides his cherry lips into a delectable smirk.

_Too bad he's taken his morning dose of cocaine already_ , he thinks to himself, _because he could very easily overdose on this sight before him._

"Whatever could you be going on about?" Draco teases, cocking an eyebrow as a form of torment.

Hermione wastes absolutely no time at all. "I want to talk to you about Halloween. Last time I saw you, your hands were all over me. I want to know why you were seducing me."

Draco's smirk grows even wider. "Ah, so you admit to being seduced, then?"

Hermione's cheeks turn pink as she relinquishes herself to the persuasion of his enchanting gaze. His magnetizing, alluring silver eyes that have always seemed to captivate her in a way that no other eyes can. She hates admitting to herself how absorbed and lost she can get in them.

"I'm not admitting to anything—"

"But you were seduced."

"No, I wasn't!"

"That's not what your little hands were saying when they wrapped around mine," he whispers, his tongue stroking his bottom lip slowly.

Suddenly, the image of the green pill atop his ruby tongue rushes back into her mind, and she feels weak at the knees.

_Merlin_...

She must regain control. But it's as if all the conversation points she'd compiled this weekend are being liquefied under his fiery gaze, a gaze tinged with the same intrigue and wonder as that night. He's melting her, reducing her to a puddle of total disposition and alacrity.

"Well, your hands and your _mouth_ were saying more," she responds, gusting up a moment of confidence strong enough to deliver that line.

"Well, your taut little waist certainly seemed to want to be up against me," he slurs.

Hermione can't handle it anymore. She needs to change the subject immediately.

"What was that pill?" she asks brazenly. "The one you wanted me to take?"

Draco snickers. "It was ecstasy. Why? You're curious to hear how that one works as well?"

"No," Hermione replies, shaking her head in an attempt to reconcentrate.

"Really? You seemed pretty interested that night," Draco teases with a lip bite. "Come on, let me tell you—"

"I don't want to hear about it—"

"Here's something you'll find interesting, Granger, since you're so inquisitive and riveted by research and reading. Studies show that ecstasy increases the sex drive of some people who take it. It marks its host susceptible to such vigorous levels of arousal that they can barely control themselves." Draco takes a step closer to Hermione, and she suddenly becomes very aware of the fact that they're still standing in the middle of the hallway. "Isn't that fascinating?" he presses further.

"No—"

"And to think, you almost licked that pill right off my tongue. Who knows what would've happened, then."

She wants to slap him for that comment.

But she also wants to listen. Wants to know so badly how it works.

"It also increases your confidence," he continues, as if he can read her mind. "You have no idea how good that little pill makes you feel. You're hot, alive; you can literally detect the streaming crusade of your boiling blood as it pulses through your body. That night, I could feel the heat of the strobe lights tinge and seethe against my skin." He stops for a moment and smirks, his next thought driven by such unsavory intentions that Hermione gasps: "And when you pressed your little body against me, I felt everything. I could sense your heartbeat through your back. I could feel your pulse in your neck. I could spot fucking goosebumps on your ears. And I could read your fucking mind: you liked it."

Hermione feels a sudden swell of confidence rise within her, one stemming from her task to play Draco in his own game. She inquires, "Doesn't that say just as much about you than it does me?" 

Draco lowers his eyebrows. "It says more about the will of the pill than any actual feelings."

"No," Hermione responds, shaking her head at the pleasant thought of winning yet another victory today. "You said only _some_ people succumb to a sex drive under the pill."

Draco's face tenses at her careful construing of his words.

The confidence bubbles and bursts out of her effortlessly.

"You know what I think? I think that you're a part of the other percentage of people who don't feel a sex drive through the pill. I don't think the ecstasy completely drove the manner which you acted that night. I think all those things were done on your own volition. And you're using the pill as an excuse. Because there's something inside of you that feels attracted to me—"

"You _bitchy_ swot," he mutters through gritted teeth, and Hermione can sense the precipice of her victory, can see it in the horizon behind his furious eyes.

"It's clear in the way you describe it," she continues. "Your detailed descriptions of that night make it so obvious. If you really were hallucinating—if the pill really did misconstrue your intentions—then how is it that you can remember everything in such vivid detail?"

In a brief moment, Draco closes his eyes and twitches his head to the side, like his body is compulsively reacting to something she said. It could be the drugs—she still doesn't know exactly how cocaine works, even though she's been meaning to do her research.

Knowing Draco and his talents, though, Hermione considers something unrelated. It's the way his neck spasms with panic and trepidation of the thought of Hermione getting too close to transgressing beyond his walls, uncovering his secrets.

She noticed Harry twitch in a similar way fifth year when Voldemort constantly impeded his mind and body.

Draco's trying to occlude.

But his Occlumency must not be as resilient as before because he's evidently struggling. His teeth grit together in frustration and his eyes cinch together tightly. She assumes that his lack of success is due to his intense drug use—it must somehow be corrupting and weakening his magic.

How the mighty have fallen.

"You're occluding, aren't you?"

He glares at her, feels wildly exposed as Hermione picks him apart.

"You're thinking about that night right now," Hermione says through a successful grin. "You're trying to repress it, aren't you? And you honestly expect me to believe that you didn't enjoy it?"

"Don't push my nerves, Granger—"

"What, you can poke at everyone else's buttons but can't bear to have yours pushed, Malfoy? You know what—I think the moment you get a taste of your own medicine, you become wildly flustered. And you attempt to occlude. You struggle to force everything you're feeling back down into a hidden compartment. We've all got dark secrets stashed deep in our souls, Malfoy. And I think you're worried that I'm getting closer and closer to exposing yours."

"Aren't you a little swot—"

"It's not that difficult to recognize. You're straining your neck, your head is spasming, your eyes are shut closed—all clear signs of someone attempting to occlude, although they are beginner traits. It's clearly become more difficult for you to successfully block your memories. And I have a rather decent indication of why that might be."

Suddenly, without warning, Draco storms off.

"Malfoy!" Hermione calls out, rushing after him. They twist through several hallways, stumbling deeper into the intricate design of the Ministry's fifth floor, one filled with alcoves and spare rooms that extend in all different directions. Hermione remains on his heels, though, unwilling to allow him to escape that easily. "You don't get to just walk away from me!"

They pass by an alcove on their right, and Hermione daringly grips her fingers around the back of Draco's black shirt; she tugs—no, hauls him into the aperture in the wall. Driven by her soaring levels of frustration, she twists him by his shoulders and shoves him up against the indigo tiles. Draco's head knocks back against the wall, and he lets out a groan.

Draco is shocked. He's stunned. He's... turned on. Titillated by the way she handles him effortlessly, at the way he is capable of liberating the anger within her.

But he too has a war to win. "Get your fucking hands off of me," he growls at her, lunging his face forward to frighten her. But Hermione is quick to counteract his approach; she removes one of her hands from his shoulders and heatedly locks his neck against the wall with the side of her forearm. With their significant height different, the position is undoubtedly straining, but Hermione has never felt more in control.

"Why are you doing this to me?" she asks with immense exasperation. "What have I ever done to you? Why have you always felt the need to embarrass me and toy with my emotions? _Why_?" The questions roll out of her one by one with each flummoxed breath she exhales. She can barely process the rate at which they leak out of her mouth.

"It's _fun_ ," he says through his seething teeth, delivered in a staccato of punctured syllables, beating against the air like waves on jagged rocks.

"I can't understand what I've ever done to make you hate me. Like, really hate me."

"You want to know why I hate you? You really want me to go down that rabbit hole?" he taunts, licking his lips and sniffing through his nose. "You asked for it. You're a bitch. You're a swot. You've always been bossy, a killjoy, and a fucking pain in my arse. I can't stand you. I can't stand your shrill voice, your uncontrollable hair, and your beady little eyes. You repulse me, Granger. You and your hero complex, festered by the Sorting Hat's faultless decision of placing you in fucking Gryffindor. You, along with all the rest of those fuckers, harbor the notion that you're the only ones who are remotely capable of saving the world. You are obsessed with making yourself the hero. And it makes me fucking nauseous."

She listens, processes every word he says, and considers her next choice of words very carefully, wanting more than anything to resume her charade masked as the bearer of chaos that is Draco Malfoy, flip the roles and provoke him the same way he does to her and everyone else in his life.

"It's funny... during that monologue of yours, you called me several things. But you refrained from using that one word."

Draco stares back at her, his mouth agape. She savors the sight.

"You still haven't called me a mudblood."

"Don't make me do it," he growls.

"I just think it's noteworthy that you haven't said it yet."

"Shut up, Granger—"

"I think you don't want people knowing that it's not how you feel anymore—that maybe you never _really_ believed it when you called me that name all those years. Because you certainly seemed to be keen on getting quite intimate with a mudblood on Halloween—"

"You think I don't use that word anymore?" he interposes, the corner of his lip climbing up the side of his cheek. "You think I don't love hearing it roll of my tongue so effortlessly?"

"No, I don't. You would've said it by now if you really wanted to."

Draco gulps, beads of sweat starting to procure on his temples.

"In fact," Hermione continues, recognizing without question that she holds the upper hand, "I think you were excited at the prospect of having a mudblood's tongue stroke against yours that night. Not just any mudblood, though. Me. 'Granger.' _Hermione_."

His eyes widen with fear, like her first name is somehow a trigger for him. "I could say it if I wanted to," he insists. "I could say it."

"It sounds as though you're trying to convince yourself of that more than you are trying to convince me."

"Merlin, Granger, I wish I could fucking strangle you right now—"

"You still haven't said it—"

"If only you knew how badly I want to fucking rip that smug expression right off your face—"

"Still haven't said it—"

"How desperately I want to tear the rat's nest that you call hair from your scalp—"

"Still haven't said it—"

"Fucking split you _limb_ from _limb_ —"

"And yet, you _STILL_ don't say it, Malfoy—"

"MUDBLOOD!"

The sound of his scream echoes through the concave, rattling off the walls and projecting right back into their ears.

Hermione freezes. She's done it—she's gotten a reaction out of him.

"Is that what you fucking want from me? Huh? You get off on hearing me call you a _fucking_ mudblood?" Draco hisses.

Hermione chuckles, and Draco cocks an eyebrow in perplexity. "There he is," she whispers. "There's the Malfoy I've always known—"

"Stop," he mutters, his breath fluttering and quaking.

"You know something, Malfoy?" She wraps her hand around his right wrist and yanks the sleeve up to his elbow. "You may look very different on the outside, what with configuring your body into a canvas for your tattoos. You may have covered your arms and chest and body with them in order to abandon who you were in the past. But on the inside, you are still so despicable."

Draco stares at her, dumbfounded.

"I don't think anybody forced you to do anything. I think you made all those choices yourself. People might have created a hell for you on the outside, but you fostered the one within. And so long as you keep using that word, keep abusing drugs, keep ignoring your problem, and refuse any help that is being offered to you, you'll never escape that hell."

"Granger—"

Hermione doesn't allow another word from him. She turns and storms away, utterly finished entertaining this anymore. She achieved what she wanted to do; she won. That was all she needed. Walking away felt incredible; as she finds her way back to the seminar room, she awaits the moment they will sit apart from one another, her victory plainly painted across her face for him to wallow at with self pity.

Watching her hair bounce up and down her back as she recedes through the hallway and back from where they came, Draco can't prevent the memories from floating back into his mind. He studies her back and can feel the ghost of her on him again.

It's all too similar to how it occurred that night; Draco pushed too hard, and she walked away.

Draco undergoes intense déjà vu.

He...

He just...

His hands ball into tight fists, so taut that his knuckles skip past the red tint and instead become even more pale than his skin.

He knows that... that she's right—

Draco spins and slams his fist against the wall with a grunt.

"Fuck," he mutters.

He despises every little thing about him in this instant. The rage within him burns so intensely through his flesh that were he to place his hand upon any surface, he swears it would swelter and blister underneath his fiery touch.

But there's still that other feeling, too. The one he got when she was all over him. It burns in the same way as his rage—maybe it's even synonymous with his rage. Maybe his rage is what drives this other feeling. Maybe they're identical—different forms of the same base emotion.

Passion. Burning passion.

_Fucking hell_ , he thinks to himself, _that bitch. That motherfucking bitch._

The fact of the matter is that Draco wants to wrap his hands around her neck in more ways than one. He wouldn't mind killing her. Would love to watch as the life evaporates from her beady eyes, slowly but surely. But he also wouldn't mind having her body up against his again and trailing his hand up her sensitive skin, over her shoulder, and straight across her neck. He would drive her neck backwards, gently, arching her head onto his shoulders so that her curls could suffocate him, and then he'd stamp her throat with just enough pressure that he'd leave little marks on each side—little finger impressions that showcase how he feels about her. And she would whimper—that sound that makes him go fucking crazy—and that would be it.

He tries to occlude again. Tries to push that detailed picture back down into the abyss within him.

But he can't block something that strong. Something that desirous. Something that real to him. And he certainly can't do it with the drugs in his system, which effectively counteract and intensify every little sensation within him. The desire sprouts faster than the cocaine, festers and multiplies in him like a Gemino Curse. And he can't control it. Can't resist it much longer.

Today, Granger beat him at his own game. He can confess to that.

But tomorrow, and the day after that, and the weeks after that, and the months after that, until the end of this stupid fucking program, he'll restore his power over her. He'll have her wound around his little finger, tempting her with the thing he knows she wants to explore more than himself.

Because it's obvious she wants him.

But it's even more obvious that she wants the _drugs._


	12. Chapter 12

**tw: graphic scene of alcohol abuse**

Draco spends all week staring at Hermione throughout the mind-numbing and repetitive F.D.E.R.E. meetings, bursting at his seams to reap another pugnacious riposte out of her. But no matter how acutely he gazes at her, or how many times he rocks back and forth in his squeaky chair, she refuses to look at him.

Won't give him the time of day.

Won't stare him down with those ember eyes.

He hates to admit it, but he misses their belligerent repartee. _Craves_ it. Desires more confrontation; it's one of the only things that keep him sane and engaged in his life beyond the drugs.

But the memory of his cruelness towards her is like an incessant ringing in his ear, a bothersome bee buzzing right in the slip of his cavity, constantly reminding him that he is a fucking arsehole. A worthless, good for nothing, piece of shit. With each vibration, he hears more about his failures, his letdowns, his disappointments.

He hears that Hermione Granger wants nothing to do with him.

Never has, never will.

By the end of the week, he is queasy at the thought of it. At the possibility that she'll ignore him for the remainder of the program. He can't get a reaction out of her; he'd been so confident that he'd still be able to.

But she's a stubborn _bitch._

He needs to get his anger out. Needs to cope in the only way he knows how.

Needs to drown out her voice: soft, like the most forgiving velvet again rough skin, but simultaneously shrill, like nails on a chalkboard.

Nevertheless, music to his ears. 

For most nights that week, the Slytherins had remained in their apartment, content on smoking their weed and engaging in their lighthearted sexual excursions.

Draco's only source of happiness: Adrian and his fucking jokes.

"You know," Adrian starts as they pass a blunt between one another whilst the others retire to their bedrooms, "If you're ever _really_ lonely and are craving some company—"

"Adrian, for fuck's sake—"

"We do share a room. Not a bed, mind you, but a room. It would be easy."

Draco inhales the cannabis behind his cherry-tinted smile. "Sod off."

There'd always be a laugh shared between them at the end. And Draco would feel better—for a moment. But the darkness would always return, promptly engulfing him yet again, like he'd suddenly find himself suffocating on hot steam in a small room, the particles coated with verbal reminders of his failures.

On Friday, he resolves to occupy himself with something stronger. After another painful F.D.E.R.E. session and another failed attempt at occluding everything he feels about Granger, Draco persuades his friends to make a trip to Amortentia. And they elatedly concur, agreeing that they'd been well-behaved this week and deserved to have some fun.

Draco launches his night with several consecutive shots of firewhiskey, straight from the spout of his bottle. He swigs down the burning alcohol at an alarming rate. The alcohol spreads and latches onto every blood cell in his stream, clinging onto its newfound sense of power over him. The warm liquor fuses with his cold blood, eventually causing his vision to blur and his mind to stumble over itself. He concocts a perfect remedy to mask Granger's incessant voice echoing in this mind.

_Get her out_ , he thinks as he draws more and more alcohol into his system. _Get that bitch's voice out of your head._

With the shades of their windows pulled up, the incandescent beam of the full-moon casts a subtle light into their dimmed apartment. It calls out Draco's name, tempting him to step outside into the brisk air and explore the possibilities of the night. To seek out other eclectic beams—more colorful and radiant than the moon's very own lumen.

Draco stares at the moon, the source of eternal light in an otherwise shadowy sky. He wonders what the source of light within him is. Whether he harbors one at all.

They're a half-hour into pregaming. Once he's downed more than half the bottle of firewhiskey, Draco begins to sense the effects of the alcohol. They're nothing like the drugs, though. And he wants more.

He licks his lips as he gazes around the room, searching for a pill, some cocaine—anything to supplement and enhance the insatiable yet decelerating speed of alcohol.

Blaise is quick to notice his treasure hunt for drugs. And he's just as quick to stop him.

"Malfoy, no," Blaise says, grabbing Draco's wrist mid-search and shaking his head. "Take it easy. You've almost drunk a whole bottle of firewhiskey. You know how mixing can be dangerous."

"What are you, my mother?" Draco slurs, lowering his head and glaring at his friend. He starts to laugh, a low and hollow sound emanating from the pit of his stomach. Yanking his arm away from Blaise's grip, Draco continues to stumble around the apartment, combing through their space to locate those _fucking_ pills.

His eyes suddenly catch them. They are green and pale blue, resting within clear dime bags on the television stand against the wall. Just begging to be ingested.

"I'm not in the mood to take care of you tonight like usual," Blaise continues with a lowered voice. He reaches for Draco's arm again and drags him back.

"But you will," Draco sings, turning around with a roguish smirk. "You've got healer hands, remember?" Draco lifts his hands and clamps his tightly wound fingers together in the air like a crab, his index finger and thumb of his right hand still clasping the mouth of the bottle. "Blaise and his little superpowers. Blaise the Healer. Healer Zabini, ladies and gentlemen! Give him a hand!"

Draco hears a whistle come from somewhere in the apartment. He sticks his right arm up in the air with a pumped fist, reveling in his received reply.

"Draco," Daphne interjects, stepping in for Blaise and placing her hand on his arm, "You don't need those tonight. Stick to one thing, yeah? We've talked about this already."

Draco ignores her, too focused on the soft flow of crimson blood dripping from her nose, the high viscosity of the liquid causing the pace of the dripping to be rather gradual. He points at her face and says, "Your nose, Daph."

"Fuck, already?" Daphne lifts a dainty finger to the entrance of her right nostril and looks down at the scarlet blood on the tip of her index, staining her painted nails.

"I'll take care of it," Blaise whispers, placing his hand on her back and subsequently trudging across the apartment to retrieve his wand from the bedside table of his room. He returns and points it at Daphne, muttering a quick charm, and suddenly the blood rolls back up her nose and dries in the aperture.

"Wish you'd do that for me every time I get a nosebleed, Blaisey-kinz," Adrian calls out with a smirk as he lounges upon their navy couch, his legs spread wide and a blunt jammed between his lips.

To his right sits Pansy, her back leaning lightly against Adrian's shoulder and her legs wrapped over Theo's lap. Theo strokes her leg delicately, his fingers tracing up and around her fishnet stockings, feeling each little opening of the netting, until he reaches the hem of her black, silky dress. 

"You never ask," Blaise retorts with a small grin. "You like the way it looks—don't lie."

"I do look pretty tough, don't I?" Adrian chortles, blowing out the smoke between his plump lips. "Remember that one time when Granger thought that I broke my fucking nose? That one knows quite a bit, but she needs to brush up on her drug—"

"Careful, Adrian," Pansy interjects, tipping the back of her head onto Adrian's shoulder and looking up at him with her doe eyes, "Or little Draco here is going to get _jealous_."

"Oh, _right_ ," Adrian says with a cheeky grin and raised eyebrows. "My apologies, mate."

Draco grunts and takes another hearty swig from his bottle.

_For fuck's sake, he can't escape her for two bloody minutes._

"You haven't mentioned her all week—"

"Why would I?" Draco snaps.

Theo snorts. "Well, _this_ is certainly a shift from how you were slurring on and on about her on Halloween—"

"Shut up, Theo," Draco orders, taking another drink and glaring at his friend as he does it, his pupils burning with anger.

Tired of his attitude and worried about his safety, Daphne wraps her hand around Draco's now more than half-empty bottle and attempts to yank it away. But he aggressively snatches it back, as if one moment away from it would effectively kill him. Daphne stumbles forward as he heaves the bottle away, and she trips over her heels and stumbles onto her knees in front of Draco.

Blaise steps forward, his nostrils flaring, but Daphne rises back onto her feet by herself. 

"Draco, come on," she whispers. "No more. You don't need any more."

"Let go of my bottle, Daph," he responds through gritted teeth.

"No," she says, shaking her head and standing her ground. "That's enough for tonight."

"Since when did you become in charge of my habits?"

"Come on, Draco. I know you're feeling disappointed in yourself—"

"Stop," he mutters, shaking his head, trying to occlude, desperately vying for a moment where he doesn't need to be reminded of his mistakes.

Daphne furrows her eyebrows, doing everything she can to persuade him to stop drinking. "You've had plenty to drink, far more than anyone should."

"You'd know about that, wouldn't you?"

His words cut through the space between them like a poisoned dagger, vaporizing the air Daphne breathes and causing her to deeply inhale the reminders of her own wretched memories. Those memories, where she hurls everything from her stomach from the night before, or causes a scene, or makes them all late for meetings. Those where she forces Blaise to hold up her hair and she leans over a toilet, to embrace her in the nights when she shakes with the anticipation of her morning withdrawal, or to grip her arm to help her walk around when she feels too weak.

Everything she does, she forces other people to help her. Her biggest fear is being too co-dependent, coercing others to take care of her when she should be able to do it all by herself.

"I know you don't mean that," she whispers to Draco, shaking her head slowly, staring back at him with a gaze so pure and unsullied by bad intentions that Draco's throat constricts.

He immediately regrets what he said.

_He knows... He knows it's not her fault..._

"I didn't," he whispers ever so quietly. "I'm..."

He struggles to finish his sentence.

Clouded by friendship that has stood the test of time and circumstances, Daphne curls the side of her lips in a small smile—a peace offering fit for the both of them. Not flashy, flamboyant, or public, but a small bidding to placate the tension.

And as she lifts her thumb to dab off the alcohol staining the corner of Draco's lips, Draco suddenly feels his vision come back for a moment. He sees a friend, an anchor—someone to bring him back when he's at his lowest point, when the things in his life concave in on him and thrust him into the depths of his desolation.

He stills feels the alcohol. It's well within his system. But he feels Daphne, too. Her frosty eyes speak to him to counteract the liquor.

Then, when Daphne breaks eye contact with Draco to address the group, the alcohol takes control again. Shoves that comfortable feeling down to the crater in his conscience and regains authority yet again.

"Let's get going, yeah?" Daphne calls out to the others. "I'm itching to fuck around with Titus tonight!"

"Yes, please!" Pansy shouts, throwing herself off the couch and stretching her arms up to the ceiling. Taking advantage of her position, Theo rises and wraps his arms around Pansy's open sides, nestling his head into her shoulder and kissing her neck with fervor.

Draco's head begins to throb as it becomes a slave to the liquor within him. He transfers his autonomy to the substances in his body; he relinquishes himself to whatever his subconscious aims to achieve tonight. Whatever the alcohol drives him to do.

_And so long as you keep using that word, keep abusing drugs, keep ignoring your problem, and refuse any help that is being offered to you, you'll never escape that hell._

He sighs out of his nose, the air stained with his rage at the unremitting voice of her in his head.

_Maybe_ , he considers, _hell is exactly where he belongs, anyway._

-

Usually, the lights are electric. Tonight, they're suffocating him.

_Draco._

He can't breathe. The alcohol desperately needs a new host, a new body to torture. He knows he should force it to resettle in the toilet bowl, _immediately_ , before it shadows over his senses and triggers him to plummet into a position of immobility.

But the burning liquor remains firmly planted in his stomach, not done with him yet. Keen to persecute and brutalize his body just a little bit more.

_Draco._

He can't even enjoy the night. Can't think straight. The lights pass by his eyes like blaring shots in the dark, and the sounds coalesce into a loud buzzing within his ears.

Thinking isn't an option. His brain is set aflame by the heightened sensations, drowning him in color, vibrations, shouts.

The room spins. Like he's stuck on a fucking merry-go-round.

_Draco._

His stomach is like a rock; in a quick moment, gravity tows him to the floor.

He finds himself on all fours, crawling around and struggling to breathe under the pressure building in his torso.

His hands feel sticky. They're glued to the adhesive floor of the club, smothered in the residue of spilled drinks and sweat.

He sees black. But his eyes are open.

He gasps for air but instead inhales the smell of the bodies jumping around him, either unaware or uncaring of his condition.

Someone steps on his hand. He can barely scream on account of the pain because he isn't even able to comprehend it properly. It just... happens.

_Draco._

"Stop it," he mutters to the voice, his body dropping and running parallel to the floor. "Leave... me... alone..."

Suddenly, he feels a set of hands wrap underneath his armpits and drag him up to a slumped, standing position. His body hangs limp under the person's grip, and his legs drag across the ground as he feels his savior maneuver him through the pulsating crowd.

Ears ringing and pulse increasing to intense and dangerous levels, Draco emits a forlorn groan. It slips through his teeth and punctures the air around him. And behind the incessant ringing in his ear, he faintly perceives his name being spoken over and over again, the voices tarnished with urgency and fear.

Suddenly, he's lying supine on a cloud. A magenta cloud. Soft and plush.

The feeling in his stomach grows more visceral as everything slows down. He becomes violently conscious of the puke stirring in his stomach, traveling slowly up his torso. 

He sinks into the cushion and stares up at a black hole—no, it's just the ceiling of Amortentia.

Vague and hazy outlines of bodies hover over him. Voices speak, indistinctly.

He has no idea who is who. 

He hears phrases, incomplete sentences behind the shrill ringing.

"Pump... Stomach... Alcohol..."

"Blaise... Need... How..."

"On his side..."

Warm hands steadily turn him over to lie on his left shoulder, and he finds himself facing the crowd of alive dancers. As he watches them dance in euphoria, the scene becomes blocked by several other figures, all muttering his name.

_He just wants to see them again. Wants to be happy, damnit._

He disassociates from his conscience like an out-of-body experience, gasping for air as the contents of his stomach churn in reckless circles, like a tornado wayfaring up his torso towards his throat.

His mouth hangs agape, dry and desperate for something warm and wet to stabilize him.

"Like this?"

Draco takes a deep breath, preparing for the inevitable.

" _Dispello temeta_!"

His insides explode, pouring out of him like water spurting from a sink. He retches off the side of the couch—into where, he doesn't know. He just does it. Follows the impulse of his body and the magic. Doesn't question anything.

_Draco._

"H—help," he calls out for a moment, and then he's retching yet again.

The lights start to become mute as his eyes flutter closed.

"We're here... Draco... Hear us?"

"Fuck... he's not... Draco?"

He calls for help again, impulsively and unknowingly adding her name to his plea:

"Granger... Hermi... Help..."

_Draco._

"Stay with us," he hears, and then the words become staggered and undecipherable to him.

He suddenly becomes aware of his fingernails digging into his palms, drawing blood.

He retches again, dispelling the alcohol, the contents of his stomach—everything within him.

Except for her. No matter how much he heaves, he simply cannot expel her from his mind, body, and soul.

_Draco._

Lodged deep in his box of darkest secrets, he can still feel her body on his. Can smell her imprint. 

His vision gives way, and he succumbs to a dark sleep, the only sense existing in the moments before his loss of consciousness being her pungent scent of strawberries and vanilla.

-

Draco's knee won't stop bouncing. Even as he digs his nails into his lower thigh as a way to mask the agitation, his knee won't surrender. It hops up and down with gross anxiety, itching for _something._

It acts like a rubber band being tugged apart over and over, teased by the prospect of snapping but never actually undergoing the process of being ripped apart.

Draco ingests his daily dose of Drought of Peace, just like everyone else. Closes his eyes and tosses it down his throat as instructed.

He hates the way Aberfield watches him drink the potion. Hates the way his eyes glare at Draco while he swallows the sketchy concoction, as if to both demonstrate and remind him of his unrestrained control over all them.

As if that's what they need any more of—someone controlling them.

Draco wishes he could gargle the potion in his mouth and subsequently spit the simmering liquid right back into Aberfield's fucking face.

When Granger approaches each one of them to collect their empty vials, as Aberfield grossly requests her to do every day, she still doesn't look at Draco. She just impatiently rips the vial out of his hand. For a brief moment, he feels her fingers swipe across his, and he swears the heat of her anger burns his skin as they touch, as if she wishes to demonstrate to him just how much he repulses her. How one touch can set her skin aflame with rage.

Rage. Synonymous with passion. To Draco, at least.

The group is rather quiet today, as if they've once and for all succumbed to the will of Aberfield's program. They're practically his fucking prisoners, what with the forced ingestion of his Draught of Peace and the implanting of the trackers. At this point, it seems only fitting that Aberfield strap them down to chairs and administer the Draught of Peace himself. Tip their heads back by their chins and drive the liquid down their throats without mercy.

The new face standing among them in the room doesn't look like a promising ally, either.

"I've discussed with Minister Shacklebolt different approaches for how we can improve this program," Aberfield explains to the seated Slytherins, including Hermione, who's effectively taken her place among her peers, unwilling to outwardly present herself as a part of this charade.

Aberfield continues, gazing at Hermione as he delivers his next line: "I've concluded that you all should begin speaking with a Healer about your circumstances."

Hermione glares back at Aberfield, her mouth slipping open in astonishment.

_That was her fucking suggestion,_ she thinks. _Her advice. Her proposal._

"This is Cleo Bruiser, your Healer," Aberfield says, gesturing to the woman to his left. She's tall—nearing Aberfield's height but still considerably shorter than Draco—and her straight, brown hair rests just below her shoulders. Her face is both chiseled yet appealing, elongated and sharp at the edges. Her olive skin glows against her navy power suit.

She looks at the group of Slytherins, her eyes coursing over each one intensely.

"Right," Theo mutters, "Anyone else see the irony of our Healer being named 'Bruiser,' or is it just me?"

"Thank you for that inept observation, Mr. Nott," Healer Bruiser responds, lowering her eyebrows at him. Her voice is rather soft, coated with stable yet easy-going tones.

"Can't be the first time you've ever heard that one, can it?" Adrian adds, his tongue swirling over his lips in pleasure.

"People don't pay much attention to my name; they care more about my services."

Hermione straightens her back, the urge to be hostile ascending up the length of her spine. It's the unsettling way which Healer Bruiser delivers that sentence that sets Hermione on edge, causing her eyebrows to furrow and bend with skepticism.

"And what exactly are your services? Your credentials?" Hermione asks.

"Ah, you must be Hermione," Healer Bruiser says, ignoring Hermione's questions and instead stepping forward to cut through the boundary of the circle. She subsequently extends her hand to Hermione to shake. Hermione considers not engaging with her greeting, but she ultimately gives in. "I've heard so much about you."

"Can't say the same," Hermione mutters, releasing her hand and noticeably rubbing it on the side of her pants.

Draco catches himself chuckling at Granger's comments, but the second she scowls at him, he quickly presses his lips together in a stoic expression. She inhales slightly, just enough for Draco to see her chest lift up and down slowly in a moment of tenseness—something she does often that he can't get enough of.

He still breathes off of her mannerisms. Lives off of them like the pills. He can't help shoving those images of her into capsules and downing each and every one of them with a swig of alcohol.

And she looked at him. Even if it was just for a moment, she finally looked at him.

"Healer Bruiser is well equipped to handle this situation, Hermione," Aberfield ensures, placing a hand upon Healer Bruiser's shoulder as she recedes back to stand next to him. "We've been close friends for a while—"

"Oh, that's great fucking news," Theo grumbles under his breath.

"And she's very skilled in healing. She is currently employed at St. Mungo's but has agreed to join us three times a week for individual sessions with you all."

"Which will begin today," Healer Bruiser adds. "One by one, you'll join me in one of the spare rooms down the hall. I'll evaluate your conditions, your thoughts, and your intentions for this program. I'll be transcribing the sessions and taking notes as well for future reference."

"We can just tell you right now to save us all the time exactly how we feel about this program," Adrian snickers, and the group echoes his sentiment. Even Hermione allows a laugh to escape her mouth—she doesn't try to hide it.

"Well, since you're just itching to do so, why don't you come first?" Healer Bruiser asks, gesturing her hand to the front door.

Adrian sighs, slapping his palms against his thighs just before he rises. Dramatic as always, Adrian points his finger forward to his friends, spinning in a circle until he lands on Hermione. "Remember me, Granger!" he calls out theatrically.

"Oh, Mr. Pucey—"

"Tell everyone how handsome I was! Don't let them forget about my charming personality, either!"

The group can't contain their smirks and giggles as Adrian treads backwards and out the door, touching his fingers to his puckered lips and gifting the group one last kiss in the air before disappearing behind the closed door.

-

__

_Patient no. 1. Adrian Pucey. 10:35._

H.B: How are you today, Mr. Pucey?

A.P: Splendid, darling, and yourself?

_Patient no. 1 seems to harbor a lot of self-confidence. Maybe too much for his own good._

H.B: I'd ask that you call me either ma'am, Healer Bruiser, or Ms. Bruiser.

A.P: Not married, then?

H.B: Mr. Pucey, please.

A.P: Alright, alright, I apologize. It's just that—well, a charming woman such as yourself should have a wizard to take care of her. Or witch. Or whoever it is you might prefer. Say, what about Aberfield? You two look like you could be quite the power couple. You'd be like Hogwarts Sweethearts! Now—you have to agree—that's rather adorable.

_Patient no. 1 likes to redirect conversations when they become too difficult. Possibly uses humor to cope with deeper issues._

H.B: Why don't we move this conversation back to you.

A.P: Alright. Fair enough. What would you like to talk about?

H.B: Let's start off with you telling me about your parents. What sort of influence did they have on you, both while growing up and more recently?

A.P: Sheesh, we're not treading lightly. Why deviate from a classic question, though? Let's get straight to the family issues. Obviously, my saint of a father was a Death Eater, and my mother left him the second he took the mark. Smart woman. Ran off somewhere in London. At the end of the war, my charming father was sentenced to Azkaban—that is, of course, until Aberfield freed him. And now he's back at our manor, basking in his undeserved freedom. And my mother is still gone. Haven't seen her since she left.

H.B: And would you characterize your relationship with your father to be positive or negative?

A.P: Did you not just hear my sob story? He wasn't exactly father of the year. He actually threatened to disown me if I refused the mark. Crazy fucking bastard, I tell you! Guess none of that matters anymore. I haven't seen him in almost four years.

_Patient no. 1 does not have a good relationship with father._

H.B: And what about your mother? Do you know where she lives now?

A.P: I think she's in... Barnet.

H.B: Have you tried to contact her?

A.P: Ah... no. Not exactly.

_Patient no. 1 has not kept in touch with his mother._

A.P: I know why she left. Sometimes, I wish I could've been strong like her. Resisted everything that my father had set up for me. Things would be very different, wouldn't you say? For example, we would've never met! Merlin, imagine a world where you don't know who I am. Can't imagine how terrible that'd be for you. I know I'm a joy to be around.

_Patient no. 1 certainly uses humor as a coping mechanism for deeper rooted problems._

H.B: There's still time for things to be different, Mr. Pucey.

_Patient no. 1 chuckles at the previous comment, possibly denoting his disbelief in previous statement._

A.P: Is there?

__

_Patient no. 2. Daphne Greengrass. 11:02._

H.B: Hello, Ms. Greengrass. How are you feeling today?

D.G: I'm okay.

_Patient no. 2 is physically shaking._

H.B: You're shaking... Would that have anything to do with the muggle drugs you've been taking?

D.G: The lack of, actually. I really need some, if possible.

H.B: I'm afraid I can't allow that, Ms. Greengrass. Your path to rehabilitation must start now.

D.G: Please, I just need a little bit. Just to brush against my gums. It'll be very quick.

H.B: I cannot allow that.

D.G: Then... I need more Draught of Peace.

H.B: Too much Draught of Peace will put you in a dangerous state of stasis. I'm afraid I can't help you there, either.

_Patient no. 2 appears unsatisfied._

H.B: How often do you consume drugs?

_Patient no. 2 does not respond immediately._

H.B: Please don't lie. Remember, we will be able to verify everything on the tracker.

D.G: I usually have a little something every day.

H.B: And do you supplement the drugs with anything else?

D.G: Sometimes alcohol.

_Patient no. 2 regularly abuses her body with a combination of drugs and alcohol._

H.B: How do you feel after?

D.G: Like shit.

H.B: And how are you all able to afford all this contraband?

D.G: Well, it's funny, actually. Theo's really quite smart. Always been rather clever and ingenious, but no one gives him enough credit. He actually charms the drugs to multiply so that we rarely run out. But there's a catch to the magic that we haven't been able to solve. Each time the drugs are multiplied, they become a little less effective. Eventually, we have to go buy more. But that's Adrian's job.

_Patient no. 2 exhibits immense admiration for her friends, as illustrated by previous comment._

D.G: I figure it's not worth lying if you're just going to check the tracker.

_Patient no. 2 is cognizant of the tracker's capabilities._

H.B: I appreciate that. Ms. Greengrass, do you ever envision yourself not depending on drugs?

D.G: Yes. When I dream at night.

H.B: And what do you dream about?

D.G: It's not really what, but who.

_Patient no. 2 has a strong, emotional connection with someone._

H.B: There's someone you see yourself with? Someone who is there to help you with your drug problem?

D.G: Yes. He's always there, in my dreams. Like my anchor.

H.B: Well, _who_ do you dream about?

__

_Patient no. 3. Blaise Zabini. 11:33._

H.B: Mr. Zabini. Welcome.

B.Z: Thank you.

H.B: How are you feeling today?

B.Z: Um... I'm alright.

_Patient no. 3 seems keen to ask a question._

B.Z: Actually, I'd like to ask you a question.

H.B: Of course.

B.Z: I've, uh... I've been itching a lot lately. My chest, my throat, my arms, and my thighs, specifically. And I have some shooting pains around the center of my body. Like, centered in my chest and sprouting out like cobwebs. I'm wondering, based on your knowledge as a Healer, what you think that might be from?

H.B: Well, are these new symptoms?

B.Z: Relatively.

H.B: Has the Draught of Peace brought you any sort of comfort?

B.Z: Not much. I feel the pain even now.

_Patient no. 3 complains about itching and body aches._

Healer Bruiser takes a deep breath and makes a crucial edit on the observation she wrote on the evaluation sheet.

She crosses it out.

Erases the words entirely, as if they never existed.

H.B: If I may be frank with you, I assume the itching and the body aches are a result of the drugs which you all take.

B.Z: Well, perhaps, but I don't think those are very typical symptoms—

H.B: Mr. Zabini, what is it you wanted to do with your life?

B.Z: _Wanted?_

_Patient no. 3 becomes visibly upset with the tense of the verb, insinuating that he still envisions doing something in his future._

H.B: Excuse me—want. What is it you want to do with your life?

B.Z: I _want_ to become a Healer.

H.B: That's wonderful. Why?

B.Z: There are several reasons, all rather scattered but important, nevertheless. I excelled in Potions and Herbology at Hogwarts. They were just classes I enjoyed being in. And... when I first took the mark, I wanted to channel the depression I felt into something more productive. It was Madame Pomfrey who offered to train me in the Hogwarts infirmary, and she did it without question. She showed me how to properly apply bandages to wounds, perform proper healing spells, and brew healing potions. She didn't know my secret. She was so kind. And I... I want to be that for someone else. Their caretaker. Their anchor when they feel like no one else cares.

H.B: Are you referring to Ms. Greengrass?

B.Z: Yes. I'd do anything for her.

_Patient no. 3 would do anything for Daphne Greengrass._

_Patient no. 2 and Patient no. 3 have a strong, intimate connection._

H.B: I'd encourage you to reflect on that desire. Ms. Greengrass' body is weak and tired, and the drugs are only making it worse. From one Healer to someone who wishes to do the same, I would recommend that you begin to take better care of her.

_Patient no. 3 is visibly agitated._

B.Z: I can take care of her. And I would do anything for her. Don't presume to know anything about our relationship with one another, or our relationship with the drugs we take. You don't know the first thing about it.

H.B: I can see that I've struck a nerve. I apologize.

B.Z: She's mine. She's mine. And I do my best. I will always do my best to take care of her.

__

_Patient no. 4. Draco Malfoy. 11:59._

D.M: Nervous for my session, ma'am?

H.B: On the contrary, Mr. Malfoy. I'm quite eager to speak with you.

D.M: That's a first.

H.B: How are you feeling?

D.M: Fuck's sake, you lot always have to start with that question during one of these things, don't you?

H.B: Come again?

D.M: You Healers always ask the same boring questions.

_Patient no. 4 might have met with a Healer in the past._

H.B: Are you saying that you've met with other Healers before?

_Patient no. 4 refuses to respond._

H.B: Have you sought help in the past, Mr. Malfoy?

D.M: Is that any of your business?

H.B: You have, haven't you?

_Patient no. 4 is shutting his eyes, twitching his head, and straining his neck._

H.B: Are you attempting to occlude right now, Mr. Malfoy?

D.M: Fuck's sake, you're just as much of a swot as _she_ is.

H.B: She?

D.M: _Tch_. I don't want to elaborate.

_Patient no. 4 is thinking about someone._

H.B: Mr. Malfoy—

D.M: Why don't you just ask me the question I know you're dying to ask? 'What's with all the fucking tattoos?' Salazar knows that everyone I come across is so fucking interested in them. As if I need to have a reason for each and every one.

H.B: Well, do you have a reason for them?

D.M: No. They're wholly unimportant. Sprinkled on my skin to represent just how discombobulated my insides are. Why not bring that out for everyone to see? Be exactly who they think I am?

H.B: Your tattoos certainly don't sound unimportant if they do in fact represent how you feel on the inside. Why don't you tell me about just one of them?

_Patient no. 4 hesitantly looks at the plethora of tattoos on his arms._

H.B: How about that one? The shark on top of your right wrist. A shark is a natural predator, is it not?

D.M: I suppose so.

H.B: Is that how you see yourself, then? A natural predator?

D.M: Not entirely.

_Patient no. 4 does not see himself as a predator._

H.B: Then, why a shark?

_Patient no. 4 is hesitant to respond._

D.M: Because they're determined and headstrong. Will barrel down anything in their path to get their way. And they're restless. Constantly craving more.

H.B: So, would you characterize yourself as restless?

D.M: For some things.

__

_Patient no. 5. Theodore Nott. 12:31._

H.B: Take a seat, Mr. Nott. How are you feeling today?

T.N: I'm good, and yourself?

H.B: I'm well, thank you.

T.N: Ah, you're one of those people.

H.B: Which people?

T.N: The ones who answer with 'I'm well' rather than 'I'm good.' Tells you a lot about a person.

H.B: Like what?

T.N: Well, just that they're... smart. And want people to know it.

H.B: So, based on your logic, do you not think you are smart, Mr. Nott?

_Patient no. 5 is hesitant to respond._

T.N: I'm not the smartest, no.

_Patient no. 5 might struggle with self-esteem issues._

H.B: Well, I've heard some things about you that beg to differ.

T.N: Oh?

H.B: I hear you're quite skilled at charms.

T.N: Ah, who's the mystery admirer of mine? Finally! I deserve one, don't I?

H.B: Why don't you tell me some other things you believe that you are skilled at.

T.N: I'm pretty proficient with Legilimency, actually.

_Patient no. 5 is a Legilimens._

H.B: Is that so?

T.N: Yes.

H.B: How did you learn?

T.N: My father.

H.B: Ah. Were these pleasant lessons?

T.N: Not particularly. But inserting yourself into someone's brain, mind, memories, and thoughts is never really a comfortable endeavor to begin with, so, I figured the lessons would be torturous.

_Patient no. 5 does not have a pleasant relationship with his father._

H.B: Do you find yourself more fascinated with Charms or Legilimency?

T.N: Both are equally fascinating to me.

H.B: I see. Your father taught you Legilimency. Who was your Charms teacher?

T.N: That'd be Professor Flitwick. Nice guy. He used to tell me all the time that I—

_Patient no. 5 does not finish his sentence._

H.B: Used to tell you what?

T.N: That I... had a knack for it. That my skills were some of the sharpest he'd seen. That one day I could write books, create spells, maybe even teach at Hogwarts if I wanted to.

H.B: Teach at Hogwarts? Is that something you'd like to do?

T.N: Well, it doesn't really matter anymore, does it? They'd probably never have me back.

_Patient no. 5 had life goals and felt a connection to Hogwarts._

H.B: And why is that?

T.N: You're the Healer. Can't you tell I'm completely broken?

__

_Patient no. 6. Pansy Parkinson. 12:59._

H.B: Welcome, Ms. Parkinson.

_Patient no. 6 seems displeased with that title._

P.P: I'd prefer if you called me Pansy.

H.B: Is there a reason for that?

P.P: 'Ms. Parkinson' sounds too much like my mother.

H.B: Wouldn't that be _Mrs._ Parkinson?

_Patient no. 6 appears irritated._

P.P: Do we really need to get into semantics? The phonetics are the same to me.

_Patient no. 6 has deep, purple bags under her eyes._

H.B: I see. And why do you not want to be referred to as something close to your mother?

P.P: She's a bitch.

_Patient no. 6 does not have a good relationship with her mother._

H.B: Would you like to talk about why?

P.P: Her and my father are cruel—to me, to one another. I'm glad to be away from that house.

_Or father._

H.B: When was the last time you saw your parents?

P.P: Right before they were shipped off to Azkaban. Where they belong.

_Patient no. 6 has a strong discontent for her parents._

H.B: And were they released under Mr. Aberfield's rehabilitation program two years ago?

P.P: Yes. They're living comfortably at Parkinson Manor. Probably in separate wings. Probably never even seeing one another.

H.B: How does that make you feel?

P.P: Not my problem. It's theirs. If they don't want to fight for a relationship—fight for love and family—then I won't bloody force them.

H.B: Do you feel that's why you so strongly wish to deviate from your mother and father? Because _you_ wish to fight for love?

_Patient no. 6 seems thrown-off by a question about love._

H.B: Do you feel love for anyone, Pansy?

P.P: Yes. For multiple people.

H.B: Do you strive to show your love for people because you want to separate yourself from the world your parents created? A world that doesn't involve love?

_Patient no. 6 takes a deep breath._

P.P: I... I guess.

H.B: What does love mean to you, Pansy?

__

_End of Day One Session._


	13. Chapter 13

Pansy has always been instructed to cast a façade over any weakness that might slip across her mien. Drilled to disregard any signs of imperfection and fragility that might come to pass beneath her chocolate eyes and pale disposition—repress those signs until they are simply figments of her imagination. Until they never even existed in the first place.

_Ignore, ignore, ignore._

So when the skin around her Dark Mark begins to burn in an agonizing array of sharp stings and aches, she's careful not to show it. Careful not to draw attention to the sweltering pain subsiding beneath and upon her supposedly stagnant Dark Mark.

Blisters start to configure upon her skin around week after her first meeting with Healer Bruiser. She notices it while taking a shower—little splotches of red bumps scatter across her forearm, surrounding her latent tattoo. And as the scorchingly hot water contacts her sensitive skin, her arm surrenders to the deeply painful sensation, as if the heat acts as a catalyst to the mark's desire to stir pain.

Retreating from the water raining from the nozzle, Pansy stumbles backwards in her shower, her feet tripping against the saturated base of the porcelain bath. She knocks her bare back against the tan-tiled wall and grits her teeth in pain, careful not to cry out. Cognizant of the fact that their walls are thin, and that any nose can travel through the plaster with ease.

Not that she cares about other noises. But this one in particular—one coated with the divulgence of her pain—is one that she desperately wishes to keep a secret.

Gripping her left wrist with her right hand, she lifts her arm up to her face to inspect the marvel before her.

Her skin is enflamed, red and seething from a mix between the water and some sort of dark magic. And her mark is... _moving._ It just danced upon her skin.

Pansy swears that the snake's head bobs up and down, as if it's waking up from a deep slumber.

_It's just the hot water_ , she reasons with herself, ignoring the pain, the possibility of weakness, and the obvious imperfection that taints her skin. _And it's just your fucking imagination._

Two weeks after that shower, as she and Theo fuck upon their bedsheets in a chorus of laughter and pleasurable moans, Pansy suddenly feels the pain expand upon and beneath her arm yet again.

She brushes it off, thinking that it's just her body aching for how much she loves Theo. A sensation illustrating just how much his touches stimulate every inch of her being, and how she has no choice but to instinctively respond to her soulmate in visceral and bewitched ways. Ways that she can't possibly control.

Theo fucks her gloriously, but as he swathes his hands around her wrists to latch them above her head, Pansy can't help but cry out in pain.

"Fuck!" she shrieks through their kiss, shutting her eyes and squirming at his grip on her forearm.

Theo's eyes widen as he immediately pulls away and loosens the grasp on her wrists. "Shit, Pans, you okay?" he says through a nervous laugh.

"My... my arm," she stutters, twisting her head to her left to inspect her mark and verify the presence of those same blisters.

She sees them. The blisters. Even in their dimly lit room, Pansy can make out the swelling upon her skin, like a pestilence bedeviling her otherwise perfectly smooth skin. Her mind begins to spin like a hurricane as she contemplates the inevitable circumstances—she has to tell Theo.

"Must've grabbed you too tight. I'm sorry—"

"No, it's not that," Pansy interrupts, shaking her head and letting out a brisk laugh.

It's not enough to soothe Theo's concerns, though. He watches as Pansy struggles to form an explanation for her sudden outburst.

Eventually, she emits a staggered procession of words. "It's... uh... there's something..."

Theo climbs off of Pansy as she shifts to sit up against their wooden bedframe. Clutching her knees to her exposed chest as if to instinctively hide herself during this moment of vulnerability, Pansy slowly extends her left arm forward to occupy the space between them. To show Theo the root cause of her pain. To expose herself in the way she's always been told not to do.

The skin around her mark is enflamed—red, puffy, and throbbing.

"What the..." Theo mutters, inching his head closer to examine the phenomenon on her arm. "What the fuck is that?"

"I don't... I don't know..." is all she is able to say before dropping her forehead onto her shaking knees.

Theo lifts his fingers slowly, then hesitates. "Would you let me touch it?" he asks, gazing up at Pansy as if to assure her of his solely delicate and gentle intentions.

Timidly, but harboring more trust for him than anyone else in the world, Pansy eventually nods, consenting to his touch yet again.

With immense care and delicacy, Theo runs the tips of his fingers over the red spots on Pansy's arm. Even with his soft fingers, Pansy can't help but recoil at his touch, hissing through her teeth as if he's burning her with his strokes.

She knows it's not him. Knows that his skin is quite possibly the most soothing antidote she'll ever need.

"Fuck, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you," he whispers, yanking his fingers back.

"I know," she responds, nodding her head. "It's fine."

Theo clears his throat. "Why is your arm so... red?"

Pansy falls silent, forcing out a shrug and then suffocating herself with the words she wishes she would just say. But they remain lodged in the epicenter of her throat as a reminder of her heedfulness.

She avoids the discussion altogether, wishing that she could just go through this alone. Suffer in silence like usual. She bites down on her tongue, desperate to resist the tension and wearisome reflex building behind her temples, stirring salt-water to form near the inside corners of her eyes. 

_Ignore, ignore, ignore._

She sniffs through her nose, forcing herself to replay that word over and over again.

"Does it ache? Burn? Talk to me, Pans. What the fuck is going on?"

Pansy takes a large gulp, challenging herself to dissociate from everything she's been taught and cautiously relinquish herself to Theo. It's undoubtedly a challenge; she struggles to formulate words, and when she does concur on what she wants to say, they continue to find themselves lodged in a compartment within her, placed there since her childhood, that forces her to ignore her troubles.

She lets go to see how it feels to emotionally yield herself to Theo.

"Yes. It hurts."

A weight is lifted off of her shoulders as she elongates the span of her emotional capacity.

"How long has it been like this?"

Pansy hesitates, but resolves to practice the same technique that gave her the courage to answer his previous question, even if only producing a few words. "A few weeks."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Theo inquires, his voice stained with distress and panic.

"It would come and go," Pansy explains. "I didn't want to worry you."

Theo inhales deeply. "Maybe we should tell someone. Like Blaise. He might have some sort of antidote or remedy for your skin. Or maybe even Granger can help—"

"Theo, no!" Pansy shrieks, retracting her arm and clutching it close to her chest. "No one can know about this. It has to be a secret."

"You can't keep this a secret! Look at what's happening to you, Pans! Granger might be able to help," Theo pushes, attempting to console Pansy's quivering body as he touches her leg and rubs his thumb across the goosebumps on her gentle skin.

"I don't need help," Pansy whispers, shaking her head, immediately regretting her decision to open up.

"I think you need to pull Granger aside and talk to her. Who else are you going to ask? Fucking Aberfield? I don't trust him, and I don't trust that Healer bitch either. What kind of name is Bruiser? That sends a shit message if you ask me."

A small smile creeps on Pansy's face, but she immediately clenches her teeth together in an attempt to stay as placid as possible. The voices of her mother and father ring through her mind in an orchestra of unrelenting criticism, coercing her to subvert her pain.

"I just have to shove this feeling down. Ignore it. Pretend it isn't there."

"But it is there," Theo insists. "And I really think that Granger wants to help us."

Pansy scoffs. "You really think she wants to help me?" Her question vibrates with the unforgotten pain of their years together at Hogwarts, where Pansy would call her slurs for sport and torment her physical appearance daily. She'd laugh in her direction, point her finger with Draco as they'd watch the back of her head bob up and down during lessons, and roll her eyes as they'd pass one another in the corridors.

And now, Pansy has to ask her for help—a request which might end up in Hermione laughing her arse off because of how unbelievably unfathomable it seems.

But Theo is quick to dispel that fear in Pansy. With a light squeeze of her leg with his hand, he replies, "Absolutely."

As she stares into his cocoa-colored eyes, Pansy feels herself fall victim to his soothing aroma. To the way he pleasantly coerces her to take deep breaths and allow the stress to subside in her shoulders, neck, chest, legs, and arms. He hypnotizes her with his magnetizing glance, wanting nothing more than to demonstrate his unfaltering love for and steadfast dedication to her well-being.

"Please, just bring it up to her. For me," he begs, extending his hand to cup her damp and flushed cheek.

Pansy tips her head into his touch and inhales deeply, drawing his scent into her brain as a way to pull her back to the world she knows with him.

A world full of love.

"For you," she responds, closing her eyes and fully allowing his words and touch to kill the tenseness in her body, along with the incessant instructions of her mother and father to simply ignore her 'weaknesses.'

Those tribulations continue to fade away and morph into distant memories as Theo wraps her in his arms and chest. They fall asleep, swathed in one another's warm bodies, breathing in and exchanging with one another the loving aura of their own personal respirations.

-

The last person Pansy ever saw herself seeking help from was Hermione Granger.

Yet here she is, mulling over potential greetings in her mind during their meeting, desperately trying to settle on a proper way to approach and discuss the pressing situation with the girl she never imagined she'd be acquaintances with.

_Acquaintances_. They are more than just acquaintances, no doubt. But Pansy doesn't want to overstep. Doesn't want to make their friendship seem like more of a big deal than it needed to be. It just simply... is. It exists. It's unconfirmed, but she knows it's there.

It happened organically, like the two just needed some time and space away from the confines of Hogwarts and its arbitrary housing system to see one another more clearly. Some time in the real world, where things are not so black and white, to pull apart each other's exterior to understand the phenomenons and feelings within. Registered deep in the hidden compartments of their souls.

Pansy stabs the inside of her cheek with her tongue as the day's F.D.E.R.E. meeting comes to an end. The moment of reckoning upon her, she nervously looks to her left at Theo, who raises his eyebrows and nods obscurely. Inhaling deeply, Pansy ruminates in her mind exactly what she will say to Hermione when she asks for help.

When everyone rises to leave the room, Pansy watches as Hermione turns around and trudged towards the table in the back of the room, leaning her hands upon the wooden surface and lifting her back up and down in what appear to be frustrated breaths. Suddenly, Pansy feels a familiar hand slip across her lower back, and she perceives the the soft voice of Theo whisper in her ear, "You can do it. She wants to help us."

With a nod and a deep breath, Pansy treads past the boundary of the circle of chairs and approaches Hermione's side. She turns around, as if to opt out of what she is about to do—as if to recast the boundaries of the line she is about to cross—but as her eyes catch Theo's once more as he is exiting the class with the others, he offers her another bright and loving smile. The curve of his lips sends tremors through Pansy's rapidly beating heart.

He disappears past the threshold, leaving Hermione and Pansy alone in the room.

Pansy's breath catches in her throat as she opens her mouth. Her parched lips hang there, tugged down by the sheer forces of gravity and fear.

_Ignore, ignore, ignore._

_No. Don't ignore._

"Hey, Granger? Can we talk for a minute?"

Perceiving a quiet voice just above her shoulder, Hermione looks to her right, shocked to see Pansy leaning nervously against the edge of the table. Pansy's tense face and shaking fingers are foreign sights to Hermione—reminders that she, just like the others, is simply a human, and that even she desires the companionship of anything that even slightly bends towards their well-being.

"Sure," Hermione responds sweetly. "Is everything alright, Pansy?"

"Actually, no. I... um... I need to show you something."

As she tentatively rolls the sleeve of her navy sweater up her arm, Pansy already feels the sheer influence of her deep-rooted regret circulate atop her nerves and consume her mind.

_She shouldn't be doing this. She should be keeping this a secret._

Pansy finishes rolling up her sleeve, and Hermione gasps lightly as the uncovering of her forearm.

Little red welts scatter the area surrounding Pansy's Dark Mark. They are wide but short in height, covering a large portion of the skin of her forearm. Hermione observes several blisters as well, bubbles of her skin trapping heat and pain atop her arm.

And Pansy's Dark Mark. Hermione swears she sees the mouth of the snake open and close in a small pulse.

"It's looks bad, doesn't it?" Pansy asks, creasing her eyebrows and tightening her nose.

Hermione doesn't know how to respond. She's seen these symptoms before, but there have always been explanations for them. Blisters from burns, hives from allergic reactions and other skin irritations. But the phenomenon that appears on Pansy's arm is different. It's unnerving, alarming, and upsetting at the very least.

"It's... well..."

"No need to beat around the bush, Granger," Pansy interrupts with a small chuckle.

Hermione exhales, unsure how to proceed. "Does it feel uncomfortable?"

"Very. Some days more than others. It feels like it's trying to sear off my arm."

Hermione inspects the wound more closely, trying to remember the things which she learned about Voldemort during her arbitrary seventh year. She combs through the books she read, flipping through the pages and skimming the paragraphs in her mind, but no information comes to mind about the effects of hosting a Dark Mark.

Hermione remembers one crucial piece of information, though, and it haunts her to ask Pansy about it. But she submits to ask Pansy about it anyway, desperate to confirm the answer.

"I thought that when Voldemort died, the mark was supposed to become inactive."

"Yeah, that's what I was told too. Fucking liars."

With Hermione's intuition confirmed, she continues to glare at the mark a little longer, wondering exactly what it's dance means. If what Pansy says is true—and she is certain that it is—then there is something deeper and more sinister taking place on her arm.

"It's moving. Right?" Pansy asks as if she can read Hermione's mind. "I'm not crazy?"

Hermione watches as Pansy's skin continues to breathe life into the tattoo.

"No," Hermione says quietly, "You're not crazy."

"How the fuck is this possible, then?" Pansy mumbles.

"I'm not sure."

Pansy exhales with frustration. "Fuck's sake, I thought you were supposed to be some gifted genius..."

Hermione bites her lower lip, wishing that the comments like that would subside. Wishing that people would cease to mistake and misconstrue her desire to live up to every standard and ideal as a justification for her 'smartness.'

It's not smartness—it's survival.

Pansy clears her throat, and Hermione swears that the brief glisten in her eyes denotes a tang of regret. It moves to Pansy's fingers, which fiddle in anxiety at her front.

"I... That was rude... What I meant is... Don't you know anything about this? Didn't you and Potter and Weaselbee practically dedicate your entire seventh year to frolicking around the country and studying Voldemort?"

"We didn't spend too much time on this kind of magic," Hermione responds, releasing Pansy's wrist.

"Right. I guess I should know about it more than you," Pansy says with a trivial smile, attempting to ease the enforced tension between them. "After all, I'm the one that got it branded on my arm."

"Branded?" Hermione asks inquisitively.

"Yeah. Seared. Burned into me. It was fucking painful."

Picturing the pain is too much to handle. Hermione shoves the thought down—way down—and says what she can to alleviate the tension as well.

"That's so cruel. I'm... I'm sorry you went through that."

Pansy coughs in her throat, attempting to ignore the compassion that Hermione shows for her.

But actions like that are hard to ignore when they mean everything to you. When you're desperate for one person to not judge you for your choices but rather show a sliver of compassion.

Hermione makes it so fucking hard for Pansy to not like her.

"It was my choice," Pansy responds, rolling her eyes and endeavoring to laugh off the dark memories.

"Was it?"

A beat of silence, occupied by Pansy considering Hermione's question.

"Well... sort of."

The ensuing silence between them is prolonged, characterized by a newfound sense of trust. Pansy doesn't know where it comes from—if it's Theo, pushing her to let her walls down, or if it's Hermione, being willfully receptive to helping her.

Or if it's Pansy's own volition and growth. Her own desire to seek help. The realization that she doesn't need to fight her battles alone. Help exists in places other than her secluded and dark thoughts, ones branded by her parents' cruel approaches to nurturing. If she digs deep enough, she can release that cry for help.

"So, you're really not sure what this could be?" Pansy asks again.

"No. But I can do some research on it, if you'd like. I have access to the Ministry Archives. Maybe there's something in there that can tell me about Dark Mark. It's properties, it's effects on the body—things like that."

Hermione pauses and considers another explanation, one tainted with a fear she's been harboring for several weeks now.

Her eyes trail up Pansy's arm and stop right before her elbow. She glares at the position where Aberfield injected them with the trackers.

"And I'll... try to look into some other things, too."

Pansy nods and taps the nimble fingers of her right hand against the wooden desk. She inhales deeply, then smirks.

"Can I be honest with you, Granger?"

Hermione nods her head, feeling an odd sense of accomplishment coinciding with Pansy's willingness to be honest. "Yes. Of course."

"I don't fucking trust Aberfield."

Hermione's chest tightens at the observation.

"Can I be honest with you, Parkinson?"

"Oh, I'd bloody love that."

"I'm not sure I do, either."

-

Hermione knows almost everything about effective research. With years of practice, she has made any library she steps into susceptible to her tantalizing magic and inquisitive brain. Getting lost in the records of a library is her talent, one that takes little effort but a large desire. It comes naturally to her.

She knows much less about confrontation. But knowing less is not synonymous with being afraid of it. It's not as if she's never confronted a friend or enemy before—she's had plenty of opportunities and moments of such nature. Yet she is not as proficient in the art as she is in others. Looking to inspiration from those around her, Hermione encourages herself to consolidate and bolster those skills in order to effectively answer the question about Pansy's mark.

She practically splits her body in half—one half dedicated to research, the other half dedicated to both instilling chaos and channeling the heart of not just a lioness, but an aggressive lioness. One unwilling to recede when things become too difficult or unfamiliar to understand, too arduous to endure, and too fatiguing to persist.

She doesn't just need to be courageous; she must be fearless without question. Willing to cause a commotion for the sake of the greater good.

The feelings she underwent in the alcove a few weeks ago when she provoked Draco fuss deep within her, burning to see the light of day. Hermione can't describe—can barely even comprehend—how satisfactory it was to snatch the upper hand from him. How glorious it was to have him look at her defeatedly with his glowing eyes and fall totally silent. The sight of Draco, speechless and dumbfounded at her power, squirming underneath her arm, provides her just enough confidence to embark on the journey to uncover the phenomenon on Pansy's forearm.

Hermione promptly arrives at the Ministry of Magic Archives, home to thousands of books, scrolls, pieces of parchment, newspaper articles, opinion pieces, and vials of memories. She throws herself into the archive without question, hoping to discover any sort of valuable information about the Dark Mark. Research that can potentially help her uncover the perplexing spectacle of the mark. With her past investigations on Voldemort focusing solely on horcruxes, she sparsely delved into the dark magic surrounding the marks which he created.

The archive is massive. Adorned with wooden shelves that line the interior in parallel paths, the archive is as inviting and appealing as the Hogwarts library was to Hermione. With its cascading and staggering shelves harboring detailed histories and attractive secrets about every single major event and person in the wizarding world, the Archive serves as a place of possibility for Hermione—one she wishes to take advantage of now and in the future.

The warm tones of the glow of the lights emit an autumn ambiance within the vast room. Wooden desks with built-in cubicles rest in the pathways between the bookshelves, which stand with at least a dozen feet of space between them. Desk lamps illuminate the interior, allowing visitors to take pause and read their selected documents with care.

As Hermione's eyes shift up to gaze at the ceiling, she watches as several white and orange owls fly overhead with scrolls and parchments lodged underneath their beaks. She assumes that their jobs are to organize the archive and return items to their proper spots. Her eyes continue to the ceilings, which are much higher than she's ever seen—even taller than the Great Hall's.

She deduces that the Ministry charmed the ceiling to appear much higher than it is in relation to the size of the Ministry itself. A classic charm—one used to create a sense of vastness and possibility within any room.

Surging through the archives with her sole purpose in mind, Hermione gazes over the sections displayed on the sides of the shelves. Her eyes urgently comb through the section titles, searching for any amount of information about Death Eaters, the First or Second Wizarding World, Spell Creation, Dark Magic, even Voldemort himself. Anything that can reveal something about the marks and their origin. Anything that can help point her towards what is happening on Pansy's arm.

She remembers the redness, the inflammation, the blisters. Can't remove the image from her memory. It burns into her brain, just as the mark did upon their arms.

The abundant tomes stare her down, as if their information is ripe for plucking. She senses that the answer to her question is here, within these walls. She just needs locating it.

Sifting through these shelves will take a lifetime, though. And she just doesn't have that.

A solution to the problem of time bursts into her head. Unwilling to waste time, Hermione removes her wand from the pocket of her sweater and holds it up in the air. She quietly mutters, " _Accio_ Dark Magic document," in the hopes that something will appear.

Her spell denotes a massive oversight into how much information about such a topic exists in the archive. Soaring through the air with rapid speed, more than two dozen books, pieces of parchment, and newspaper articles dart straight towards her. The documents collide into her from all directions, and she stumbles to the ground under the impact. Around her, the books and papers drop as well with several booming _thuds._

"Oh, fuck!" she whispers, crawling and rushing to pick up the sprawled documents surrounding her. Glancing around in the hopes that none of the other guests in the archive witnessed the fiasco she caused, Hermione retrieves the books and shoves them onto a wooden table just a few feet away, stacking them upon one another in a discombobulated mess of research material. Once everything is settled on the table, she pushes aside her frenzied hair and takes a seat at the table, prepared to consume herself in the words before her. Scour them until her eyes feel like they're on fire.

Of the dozens of options available at her disposal, there are only four books, all of which Hermione has sifted through in her life: _Secrets of the Darkest Art, Curses and Counter-Curses, Basic Hexes for the Busy and Vexed, and Jinxes for the Jinxed_. She exhales indignantly, already aware that none of the books contain any information about Dark Marks.

They'd been published years before Voldemort even created the magic.

She shoves them aside and begins to rifle through the documents, most of which being newspaper articles, trial transcripts, and observational notes. Using her finger to trace over the miniscule words, she begins her frantic search.

Hermione groans as she continues to flip through the pages. Nothing points to Pansy's predicament. Every research point she glosses over tells her that Pansy's condition is impossible. That the Dark Mark should be completely lifeless.

Yet it moves. It stirs. It dances upon her forearm and yields red blisters.

She saw it move.

_How could it possibly be stirring three years after Voldemort's death?_

After sifting through several unsuccessful documents, Hermione picks up an article from The Quibbler. She inspects the title: "Perturbing Phenomenon Exposed: The Mysteries of the Dark Mark Revealed."

Her eyes lower to read the name written in a cursive-like font below the title:

_Xenophilius Lovegood._

As the memories of the most peculiar and bright man float back into her mind, Hermione can't help but briefly smile. As quickly as they come, though, they fall victim to the shadows of his trauma. The happy memories are replaced with dark ones—ones where she remembers hearing that several Death Eaters tortured him for writing positively about Harry in The Quibbler. And the one where he so easily turned her, Ron, and Harry over to the Death Eaters when he felt a sliver of hope for seeing Luna again still haunts her.

It may haunt her, but it doesn't perplex her. Not one ounce of blame rests in her soul for him. Mercy is the cornerstone of her disposition—without it, Hermione would've fallen apart a long time ago.

Initially, she's confused as to why Xenophilius wrote an article about the Dark Mark. It seems like quite a stretch from his personal interests of peculiar creatures and plants. But as she expands her mind and reflects on it more, an explanation becomes clearer. Luna used to say that her father had always been interested in obscure and unusual magic—what is more unusual than Voldemort's own creations? His personal charms and alluring disposition for creating new forms of dark magic?

She begins to skim his article, looking for any sort of signs similar to Pansy's condition:

_The Dark Mark is a piece of peculiar magic. The process of receiving the mark is intensely invasive and painful for the receiver. When the dark magic is transferred from the tip of one's wand and etched into the skin of the willing inheritor, it triggers a painful burning sensation. Those questioned about the process of receiving their marks attest to this reality._

Just as Pansy said—the mark was burned into her skin. It automatically coagulated with her membrane, muscles, tissue, bones, and even the thousands of nerves running beneath her skin, functioning as the receiver and conveyor of pain.

She glides over several more sections of the article, desperate to find something meaningful.

_When Voldemort died, the effects of the Dark Mark ceased to exist. For example, the dark color of the mark significantly faded to a hue of tainted grey. The function of summoning followers also ceased to work. The marks lie comatose on the arms of former Death Eaters, operating as a reminder of the receiver's choice._

Hermione sucks in a sharp breath in reaction to the phrasing of that sentence, continuing to consider her compassion and mercy as her driving force for doing this.

_With the termination of Voldemort's life, the mark too became completely inactive and unresponsive. There is no possible way to remove the mark, just as there is no possible way for the mark to reawaken._

Hermione sighs. The last sentence haunts her—there is no way to remove the mark, just as there is no way for the mark to reawaken.

As she rises with frustration, ready to give up, she feels a tug in her chest. It pulls her back down to the books, the trial notes, Xenophilius' article, and the research done by other witches and wizards with similar questions.

_She can't give up that easily._

Pansy's words ring through Hermione's mind: _I don't fucking trust Aberfield._

She thinks about Aberfield's office. The trackers. The Draught of Peace. The books lining his bookshelf.

The research side of Hermione subsides to make room for the confrontational side. She invites the spirit of a certain dragon to materialize within her, welcoming the rush of confidence and hostility into her blood.

" _Prior Incantato_ ," she mutters, and suddenly the documents and books return to their rightful homes in the bookshelves. She turns on her heels and storms out of the archives, her feet carrying her effortlessly to Shacklebolt's office and her chest set aflame with determination and fortitude.

-

Hermione doesn't even knock on Shacklebolt's door.

There's simply no time for that. Not when Pansy is suffering in silence. Not when they can all be doing something to help counter her pain.

She barges into his office without even thinking, stumbling into what appears to be the middle of a meeting between Shacklebolt, Aberfield, and Healer Bruiser.

_A meeting. Happening without her. Fantastic._

At the sound of Hermione barging in, everyone's eyes dart to face her in abject shock.

She inhales deeply, remembering to channel Draco's energy and feeling very conscious of the rising rage that accumulates in her stomach.

"Hermione, I'm in a meeting—"

"I'm afraid this cannot wait."

Her first breath of fire.

Aberfield rises abruptly, gripping the back of his chair with his hand. "Everything alright?"

Hermione stares him down. "Actually, if you don't mind, I'd like to talk to Minister Shacklebolt alone."

"I'm afraid we can't allow that," Healer Bruiser says, also rising from her seat and facing Hermione. "Any business about the program must be discussed with us in attendance."

"Well, it's not really about the program."

"No?" Aberfield asks, cocking an eyebrow.

"No. And I'd prefer to speak to Kingsley alone."

"Anything you wish to say, you can say in front of us," Healer Bruiser responds.

"But—"

"Go on, Hermione," Shacklebolt says with a soft smile. "Quincy and Cleo are only here to help."

_She's not so sure of that anymore—hasn't been sure of that for a while._

But Hermione takes a deep breath and lets the words spill out of her mouth like a waterfall: "I have concerns about their Dark Marks."

"Whose? The group?" Kingsley clarifies, angling his head to the side.

Hermione inconspicuously rolls her eyes, as if the group of people whom she is addressing isn't incredibly obvious. "Yes. And I need to speak to you about it, _alone_."

Aberfield shakes his head. "This has everything to do with us, Hermione," he insists, raising his finger and pointing it towards Hermione. "If one of them is having issues with their Dark Marks, then we very much have a right to know about it."

"But—"

"I'm sorry, Hermione, but I'd have to agree with Quincy," Kingsley interrupts, gesturing his hand towards Aberfield. "He and Healer Bruiser should absolutely be privy to such information."

Severe irritation simmers within her gut, privy to explode any moment. She can't possibly share the sensitive subject with Aberfield and Healer Bruiser breathing down her neck.

Especially when a large part of her harbors immense skepticism towards them.

She's said too much already, though. And now she can't take it back. She can't swallow Pansy's secret back down. They all know.

_Fine_ , she meditates, _let's play the game._

"I have reason to believe that her mark is being tampered with."

"What do you mean—"

"That is a baseless and serious accusation, Ms. Granger," Aberfield says through gritted teeth.

"Well I saw it! With my own eyes!"

Another exhortation of fire.

"What did you see, Hermione?" Shacklebolt probes, his fingers tapping against his golden desk with trepidation.

"Pansy's mark, moving. Turning a dark color. Practically coming back to life."

"Impossible," Aberfield responds, shaking his head and laughing. "That magic became void once Voldemort died."

"Well, I can assure you it is not void."

The news sifts in the atmosphere of the room like a sour shot. Hermione awaits a response from Shacklebolt, attempting to avoid the glares coming from Aberfield and Healer Bruiser. Her peripheral gives way as she enacts her tunnel vision, staring directly at Shacklebolt. Pleading with her eyes for him to listen to her.

"Healer Bruiser, do you know anything about this?" Shacklebolt asks, breaking his eye contact with Hermione and referring to this new and ambiguous figure. Hermione's tongue grows dry as she recognizes the very tangible possibility that she will fail yet again to convince them of the malpractice, ambivalence, and complete neglect that is present in the program.

Shacklebolt turns to Healer Bruiser, preferring her expertise over the trust built between him and Hermione.

"No, I do not," Healer Bruiser responds placidly.

"No one has informed you about a pain coming from their marks? Not Ms. Parkinson? Not any of the others?"

"No, Minister Shacklebolt. I'm afraid I haven't heard any wind of this. I can go through my notes again to confirm, but I am quite certain that there has been no discussion of any existing pain."

"Maybe because they don't bloody trust you enough to tell you," Hermione mutters, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Where's Ms. Parkinson, then?" Aberfield asks. "Where is she to corroborate this testimony?"

Hermione scoffs at Aberfield's insensitivity, wishing that he would show some fucking compassion.

"She's ashamed and scared of it. And she resents you all. You honestly think she'd willingly tell _you_ about this? _I_ probably shouldn't even be doing this. But unlike you all, I actually give a fuck about these people—my peers. I actually want to help them with every fiber of my being. With every breath I take. With every—"

"Alright. Hermione, I appreciate you bringing this to our attention—"

"Don't," Hermione interjects, shaking her head, already anticipating what Shacklebolt will tell her. "Please don't ignore this, Kingsley."

"I'm going to consider this information—"

"That's simply not good enough!"

Aberfield inhales sharply and jumps in. "Your testimony does not offer _any_ proof of _our_ malpractice—"

"I never said it did!" Hermione shouts, exasperated and tired and...

Confounded. Intrigued by his choice of words.

_Our_ malpractice.

The room falls silent as Hermione contemplates Aberfield's response to her bringing up an issue of misconduct within the program.

"I never said it was _your_ malpractice, Aberfield..."

Aberfield's cheeks grow red, denoting a sign of culpability. Enough for Hermione's lip to curl in both a tinge of intrigue and a surge of wariness.

Aberfield placed himself in the line of fire. Confirmed her suspicions about him.

"Why would you immediately assume that I suspect you?" she asks, tilting her head to the side to convey her distrust of him.

Aberfield clears his throat, and out comes a chorus of his own rage and impatience, qualities which Hermione remembers never envisioning that he harbored. Never assuming that he was capable of showing.

_How very wrong she was._

"You've been rather insubordinate these past few weeks," Aberfield explains. "And you're insinuating that I am to blame. As if I'm the one shoving drugs into their system—"

"Quincy, a little more sensitivity, please," Shacklebolt interjects.

"If anyone is destroying their bodies, it's them. Them and their lack of self-control. Them and their blatant disrespect for authority. They have been given everything to them on a silver platter. And yet, they treat their bodies like garbage. Set themselves aflame inside with dangerous chemicals and substances. Taint the very skin they were given with despicable muggle products!"

Aberfield rages on, unwilling to relent.

Hermione doesn't mind, though. She studies his anger, calculates the value of his choice of words, and clinches onto the very valid possibility that Aberfield is not who he says he is.

He's unraveling in front of her, spilling his words frantically and without care.

"They made all those decisions. They chose to ruin their bodies. Those marks are simply responding to the drugs within them. You cannot convince me otherwise."

The dragon within Hermione trembles and growls, vying for its voice again.

It's the image of Draco, shoved up against the navy-tiled wall of that alcove, struggling under the constraint of her forearm appears in her head, that allows her to burst open at the seams with her anger.

"It's not their fault!" she roars, a fiendfyre bursting from her vocal cords. "The drugs are not their—"

"It is their fault. It is," Aberfield insists, turning to Healer Bruiser to confirm. "Do extreme measures need to be taken to control this?"

"You mean, forced withdrawal—"

"No!" Hermione exclaims. "You can't _force_ them into a prolonged withdrawal! Not without proper consultation and decision making. The withdrawal their bodies will undergo will be too damaging unless it's done correctly and with their expressed consent—"

"There comes a time, Hermione, when you must take matters into your own hands. When you must act impulsively and in conjunction with your gut. These matters can't be sifted on anymore."

_She knows all about acting impulsively. You should've seen her on Halloween, you mother-fucking bastard—_

Healer Bruiser interrupts her thoughts: "The situation is becoming much more serious. We cannot waste more time."

"Give them a little more time, _please_ ," Hermione continues. "They just need a few weeks off. They're exhausted from all of this. Can't you all see that?"

Aberfield laughs. "Give them a few weeks off? So that they can, what, frolic around their little apartment and get high every day? Not reflect on their actions and choices? I don't think—"

"Aberfield, you will allow it," Kingsley orders, staring straight at Hermione.

Her breath hitches. _A win._

"Kingsley, I—"

"Ms. Granger is right. Give them some time. They've been under our eye for a few months now. I think it's time we give them some space to reflect by themselves. If they learn something, great. If not, we can move further with your intentions."

Just as Hermione sees a win on the horizon, it's cast aside by a tidal wave.

She's determined, though, to see this through. To help them in any way she can.

"What are the terms?" Hermione asks.

"Sorry?" Aberfield responds.

"The terms? For the next few weeks?"

"I'm afraid I don't understand—"

"I'm going to help them. Keep an eye on them. So, what are the terms? What do they need to do to prove to you that they are deserving of compassion and help?"

"Quite a bit," Aberfield responds with a scoff.

Hermione purses her lips and nods back. "Trust me, I'll do whatever it takes."


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dialogue heavy chapter! apologies for that hahah, but it's a fun dynamic that I hope you all will enjoy <3

It's the same routine as every day.

Aberfield only needs to say one thing to set Draco off and compel him to snort more cocaine.

And when Draco storms off today at the end of the lesson, Hermione's doesn't feel obligated to follow. Hasn't followed him in a few weeks, actually.

She's trying a new approach—reject his tantrums, let him storm off and vent, and subsequently ignore him for as long as possible. Her temptation to run after him has faded almost into extinction. It tows on her heart as she watches him explode out of his chair and stomp away, but it doesn't carry her towards him anymore. Doesn't beg her to engage or humor his outbursts.

Its strength has faltered over the last few weeks.

Or maybe she is just becoming much stronger than it.

Stronger than the feelings which Draco has unlocked recently. The ones deep within her.

Logic fiercely battles with emotions in her mind, just like the two sentiments always have. They hammer both sides of her brain until it becomes one mesh of clashing attitudes, a clusterfuck too clouded and hazy to peer through. She doesn't know which is right to feel more.

It's the logic that wins out today because as Draco storms out the door just before the seminar ends, Hermione doesn't even flinch.

None of them do. It's all too common of an occurrence now.

More common for the others than it is for Hermione. But she's sincerely starting to understand more and more about them every day.

The door slams behind Draco, and Aberfield heaves an exasperated sigh.

"Before you all depart for the day, there's something I need to explain to you." He takes a deep breath, laced with resentment and irritation. "There will be no meetings for the next few weeks." 

What once looked like a group of inmates on death row shifts to a group of liberated individuals, people who have been revoked of the sun for so long that the brief mention of luminosity draws them to their blissful memories of how it feels to have the heat beat against their skin.

When Aberfield relays the news to them, their eyes glow with elation and their neutral expressions transform into smiles.

And Hermione smiles too. She can't help it.

"I suggest, in that time, that you reflect on what we have discussed over the past few months. Dig deep and consider the place you are at in your lives right now." Aberfield locks eyes with Hermione and clears his throat. "Hermione has graciously offered to keep in contact with you all during the holidays in lieu our sessions. I recommend that you use her services in whatever way you please."

"I think one of us certainly will take up that offer more than others," Hermione overhears Theo whisper to Pansy, which leads her to feel a sharp pang in her chest, one spiked with both intrigue and frustration.

Not frustration at Theo. Just at the situation. The insinuation. The fact that her ears work impeccably hard to catch little comments such as those about her.

Aberfield sighs, reaches for his bag next to his chair, and rises. "Do have a good holiday. We'll reconvene after the new year."

As Aberfield walks away, Blaise twists his body and grips the back of his chair with his hand. He lifts his index finger to ask a question: "What about our Draught of Peace?"

Aberfield pauses, then turns back slowly. "Pardon?" he asks, a tinge of hesitation resting in his deliverance.

"Our daily dose of Draught of Peace. The one you supply us with. Aren't you going to give us any for the next few weeks?"

Hermione watches as Aberfield's jaw tightens and chest heaves up to his throat. He releases the pent-up breath in an exhale, followed by a grunt into his fist.

"No. I can't make a proper batch quickly enough to provide you with them for that whole period of time. I trust that you will simply behave. That is the reason we are giving you this break, in fact. To see if you will behave."

Pansy scoffs and rolls her eyes. "Even if we feel pain—"

"It won't be necessary," Aberfield says briskly. "We trust you all to make the right decisions for your bodies. If you do so, then the Draught of Peace won't be required, now will it?"

"I can brew some Draught of Peace," Hermione offers, amassing Aberfield's glare at her suggestion. "If you'd just lend me some of the ingredients. And then I could—"

"It's unnecessary," Aberfield snaps. "They can control themselves. Those are the terms you agreed to, Ms. Granger. And it is your job to ensure that they abide by such terms."

Glaring is an understatement for how Hermione looks at Aberfield. She's carving through the atmosphere between them with her ire. It bubbles within her like a potion itself; contradictory to the Draught of Peace, it stirs nothing but wrath within her.

Before Hermione can spew paragraphs concerning how she feels about the situation, Aberfield exits the room.

To break the tension, Theo blows out a quick breath from his mouth. He stands, ready to leave the room and enjoy his freedom as quickly as possible. "So," he starts, a preemptive smile forming on his face, "We get a babysitter for the holidays, huh?"

Everyone follows suit, rising from their seats in anticipation for the end of the long day.

Hermione offers a trying smile. "It was the only way I could convince them to slam on the brakes for a moment. Enough time to just let you all relax."

"We appreciate that, Granger," Blaise says, nodding his head as he tugs a seat aside for Daphne to exit.

"A babysitter," Adrian smirks, flagging next to Hermione as the group breaks the divide of the circle. "That's how all good pornos start, you know?"

There's a chorus of responses from the group, all ranging between hysterical laughs, groans of irritation, and everything in between.

"Fucking hell—"

"—Adrian, holy shit—"

"—Bloody hell, mate—"

"—Too far, Adrian!"

"What!" Adrian sings, shrugging and wrapping his arm around Hermione's shoulder, pulling her in for an amicable side-hug. "Granger knows I'm kidding!"

Hermione understands that Adrian's humor is colored with impulsive and nervy sentiments. It's why the crash of laughter that charges from her mouth comes from a genuine enjoyment of Adrian's individuality. She attempts to press her lips together to disguise her laugh, but it escapes with ease.

Adrian wiggles her shoulder and clicks his tongue on the roof of his mouth. "See? Granger gets it!"

They pour out into the hallway and linger in front of the room, patiently awaiting Draco's return from the bathroom. Hermione glances over her shoulder to eye the infamous door—the door she knows that Draco is behind right now.

When she realizes what she's doing—that she's giving him attention he does not deserve—she returns her head to face the opposite direction.

 _She doesn't care_ , she tells herself, desperately trying to shove the emotional side of herself aside, not give him the time of day, and not indulge in his game. His exhausting yet exciting game.

"Still—fucking hell—sometimes you let the wildest things come out of your mouth, you know?" Pansy jokes, lightly punching Adrian's broad bicep.

Adrian turns to face Hermione, tilting his head to the side apologetically. "I'm sorry, Granger. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

"No, it's alright, Adrian," she responds with a comforting smile.

"And anyway," Adrian continues, rolling his shoulders back and smirking, as if his next words are sure to be just as rambunctious, "Babysitters really aren't Malfoy's favorite sexual trope. That would actually be—"

"Holy _fuck_ , Adrian! Catch you bloody tongue!" Daphne screeches, covering her eyes with her hands and subsequently digging her fingers into her temples. The group chortles at the implication; Hermione stands there, frozen, her mouth agape with shock.

"I'm sorry, what did you—"

"Hey! Oh, speak of the bloody devil!" Theo calls out as a warning, gesturing his arms towards the bathroom door.

Hermione spins and sees Draco leaving the bathroom, swiping his nose several times with the tip of his thumb, his mouth turned down in a melancholy frown. The moment he musters enough will to lift his head, he locks eyes with Hermione. Immediately, he straightens his back and inhales deeply through his nose, the sight sending chills up Hermione's back.

She just can't shove down the feeling. No matter how hard she tries. Every little mannerism—every idiosyncrasy that defines Draco Malfoy—bounds her in a feeling of anticipation.

"Hey, big guy!" Adrian teases as Draco approaches them. "Enjoy your lines?"

Draco's tongue drags across his teeth as he playfully flips his middle finger at Adrian. He flocks around Hermione's left and turns, eyeing her up and down as he settles next to Theo.

"We were just talking about how Hermione will be joining us for the holidays, as is a condition for letting us take a well-deserved break from the program," Daphne interjects, leaning over to address Draco directly. "Isn't that exciting?"

Retaining his eye contact with Hermione, Draco scoffs lightly. "Absolutely thrilling," he says, his eyebrows shooting up in a tantalizing manner.

"You'll have to come out with us again," Pansy says to Hermione. "We'll have such a fun time. Plus, we won't have to worry about showing up to these fucking meetings early the next day. Fuck's sake, that's always the worst part—how bloody early we have to wake up."

Reticent about the prospect, Hermione simply offers a smile. She doesn't want to put herself in that position with Draco again—one where she feebly melts in his arms in a moment of powerlessness. She can't stand the thought of him towering over her, his hands toying with her trembling body, his hot breath covering the area around her neck and ears—

_Fuck. Well, maybe she can..._

Hermione clears her throat; uncluttering her thoughts, she simply opts for the former thought. "Oh, I'm not sure that's a good idea—"

"Yes, I think Halloween scared Granger a little bit," Draco retorts, knocking his head back and sneering at her. "Threw her for a bit of a loop. Wouldn't you say so, Granger?"

Her demeanor shifts immediately with his taunt, and she yields to her newfound love of heated repartee with her avowed enemy.

She glares at Draco with blades in her eyes while simultaneously addressing Pansy.

"You know, on second thought, Pansy, I'd love to join you all again. Halloween was _very_ fun. Full of possibilities and exciting moments. Wouldn't you agree, _Malfoy_?"

"Undeniably," Draco seethes through clenched teeth, and Hermione revels in the way he stiffens with anger. She observes his fists strain and then contort, his long fingers vibrating with the rush of adrenaline and ire assuming control of his body.

"Right, so!" Adrian exclaims, clapping the palms of his hands together to discontinue the festering tension. "When will you grace us with your presence, missy?"

The eye contact between Hermione and Draco remains. She doesn't want to break it—not yet. She wants to revel in his noticeable uncomfortableness for just a little longer. Swim in the uneasiness of his silver eyes—translucent puddles of his deepest emotions. Cement the image in her mind as proof of his conflicted and intense feelings for her.

"How about tomorrow night?" Hermione responds, directing her answer to Adrian but still staring at Draco. She cocks an eyebrow at him, which only leads to his eyes softening even more. 

"Need to secure a babysitter for that prehistoric kneazle of yours for the night?" Draco asks, tilting his head.

"Merlin, Granger!" Adrian exclaims. "If you don't bring that lovely little kneazle over to our place—"

"And do what with it?" Draco snaps, his eyes finally disconnecting from Hermione's so that he can leer at Adrian. "Let it roam around and claw at our furniture? Invade our stash?"

"No, kneazles wouldn't do that," Theo comments, rolling his eyes. "They don't like weed."

"And how would you know that?" Pansy asks cheekily.

"Well... I just... It's... I don't know! I want the kneazle to come, okay?" Theo concedes, throwing his arms in the air. "It'd be nice to have a little pet prancing around the place, wouldn't it? It'd give the dreary environment some personality!"

"I second having Granger bring her kneazle," Blaise interjects, latching his hands over Daphne's shoulders.

"Third!" Daphne chimes in.

Hermione can't resist smiling at their friendliness, but she sobers her cheerfulness when she delivers her next sentence: "Oh, I'm not sure that's necessary. I'll be back to my apartment later that night, anyway. He won't miss me for too long."

"Maybe another time," Daphne suggests with a smile. "We have the whole holiday to meet that little fuzzball."

"You lot are so embarrassing," Draco mutters with a roll of his eyes.

Pansy mimics his eye roll and adds a smug smirk. "You're not the _least_ bit intrigued in meeting Granger's—"

"I've met the thing before," Draco grumbles. "You remember, don't you, Granger?"

She certainly does. Remembers their introduction to one another like it happened yesterday.

"How could I forget?" she retorts, a devilish grin planted on her face.

Theo's eyes dart between Hermione and Draco, trying to decipher the glares, the words exchanged, and the sentiments of the mysterious memory. "Don't leave us in suspense!" he exclaims. "I don't remember anything about this!"

"Me neither!" Daphne squeals.

"Merlin," Blaise mumbles, "Is she talking about when the cat—"

" _Blaise_ ," Draco seethes as a caveat.

"Oh, Blaise! You have to tell us!" Daphne says, twisting her head and cooing against his face. "Don't keep it a secret!"

"Holy shit," Adrian chuckles, slapping his hand to his forehead. "You don't mean the time during fourth year that it practically mauled Malfoy for just glancing at it in the Great Hall, right? Merlin's ball sack, that was bloody hilarious—"

"Adrian!" Draco yells, his eyes widening with irritation.

"Oh, Malfoy, ease up!" Adrian responds. "Tell me you still have that scar on your leg. Holy fuck, the laughs I had that day were tantamount to anything I've ever experienced!"

Draco exhales in defeat as the group chortles. "Right, now that kneazle is not getting anywhere near the apartment."

Daphne leans forward and winks at Hermione. "We'll sneak him in; don't worry, Granger."

Hermione laughs at the gesture and nods her head.

"So, tomorrow night, then?" Blaise confirms.

"Yes. What time should I arrive?"

"Come around ten in the evening," Pansy suggests. "We like to start the night early and end it quite late."

"How are you able to stay up—"

Hermione swallows her question, the answer popping into her head in an instant.

_The cocaine._

"Our place is just seven doors to the right from Amortentia. You can't miss it," Theo says. "When you arrive, just cast some sparks into the sky so that we know you're here." 

"I'll do that," Hermione responds, nodding her head to affirm the plans.

The pink tint of Daphne's cheeks beams with delight as she says, "Oh, this is going to be such a fun holiday!"

"We'll see you tomorrow, Granger," Adrian says as the group begins to turn and depart.

"Yes, definitely!" Hermione responds.

As they retreat towards the other end of the corridor, Hermione stares at the back of Draco's neck, watching as his veins strain with the anger writing within him. Hermione flatters herself at the knowledge that she's the one who awoke that feeling within him. Something about their little game makes her feel in control and powerful.

Her daydreams are interrupted with a shout from the group.

"Oh, and Granger?" Pansy calls, turning around and pacing backwards against Theo's shoulder.

"Yes?"

"Dress for the occasion, yeah? We're clubbing, not going to a bloody meeting." Pansy winks and returns to Theo's side.

"What was wrong with my outfit last time?" Hermione calls out with a grin.

Pansy twists her head around. "You were covered head to toe in fabric! Not spicy enough! And on the sexiest night of the year, no less! Don't worry. I've got plenty of choices in my wardrobe if you'd like to step outside of your comfort zone!"

With that, Pansy turns down the corridor and disappears with the rest of them.

_Step outside of her comfort zone?_

Hermione chuckles at the prospect of dressing in something more... revealing.

Obviously, her outfit that night hadn't been sexy enough.

But it's not that part of her internal reflection that preoccupies her.

It's the fact that even though she wore those square clothes, Draco had still been all over her. His hands still found the crevices of her body which they belonged in.

He still found her _attractive._

_Hermione could wear whatever she wanted, and she'd be content in knowing that Draco wanted her._

__

-

When Hermione's fireplace suddenly begins to crackle late that evening as she's wrapped under a blanket on her couch and reading a chapter of her book, Hermione senses a strange and ominous presence coming from the sputtering coals.

She hadn't intended on setting a fire this particular night. But it sizzles and hisses, subsequently instigating an orange blaze amidst the leftover coal pieces.

Tugging her blanket off of her lap and jumping off of the couch, Hermione watches as a round shape emerges from the epicenter of the fire. In a colorful array of red and orange sparks, the shape of a face pushes through the bits of coal. She inspects the features carefully, noticing how the hollow parts of the face are colored more yellow and the prominent features of the face are colored a deep crimson hue.

Stepping closer and leaning towards the aperture of the fireplace, Hermione makes out the familiar face incinerating in the fire, his round glasses undoubtedly giving his identity away.

"Hermione? You there?"

"Holy fuck, Harry!" she shrieks, dropping to her knees in front of the fire, her face already aching with a tantamount smile that tugs her cheeks apart. "What on earth are you doing here?"

"Well, you and I are due for a little chat, wouldn't you say?" Harry asks, his voice masked with the crackling of the embers. "And I've always wanted to use the Floo Network like this. Hope I appeared at a good time?"

"Absolutely," Hermione responds. "I've just been reading."

"Of course, you have," he says, his smile emulating brighter than the very heat of the flames.

Questions burst out of Hermione with fervor, desiring conversation with him more than anything else. "How have you been? How's Hogwarts? How's Ginny? Tell me everything while I have you!"

"Things are well," Harry explains. "Ginny is off traveling with the Harpies most of the time, which isn't actually much of an issue since I'm quite busy here. Teaching, supervising Quidditch matches, chaperoning trips to Hogsmeade—now that things are slowing down for the holidays, though, we'll have more time to relax and see one another."

"That sounds lovely," Hermione responds, settling herself down and clutching her knees into her chest. She sinks into the content sentiment which Harry palpably exudes through the fire, wishing for nothing more than to allow the cackling flames to engulf her in conversation.

"How are you, 'Mione? How's everything at the Ministry? How's the program coming along?"

Hermione sighs, running her fingers through her tangled curls and scratching the back of her head. "It's... um... fine."

She hears Harry laugh in the fire, little sparks emitting from out of his mouth as he does so. "Right, I've gotten to know your mannerisms quite well over the last decade—well enough to know when you're lying right through your teeth."

Hermione scoffs at Harry's ability to read her mien, even through the mask of an inferno. "Well..." Hermione starts, biting her tongue as she hunts her mind for the right words.

"Go on, 'Mione. What's wrong?"

"Harry, there's so many things keeping me on edge. So many things about the program I've created that I feel terrible about. So many people I feel like I can't trust."

"Like whom?"

"Have you heard of someone named Quincy Aberfield?"

"Well, he's your supervisor, right? That's what I've read in the papers."

"Yes, he is. But I have reservations about him. There's things that he's done to them that I fear are ill-intentioned."

"Such as?"

"Harry, I think he's doing something truly _awful_ to them."

The words spill out of her in a colossal rant. She explains the Location Beams, the Draught of Peace, the use of magic against them, and Aberfield's blatant disregard for conducting the rehabilitation program with any sensitivity. How he always threatens them with premade door tags for their rooms at St. Mungo's, where they'd be tied to beds and forced to undergo violent withdrawals.

How Aberfield constantly interrupts, undermines, and ignores her.

"I am frustrated with myself for not recognizing the signs, Harry," she says sullenly. "I'd worked with him for months, and he was... kind. Helpful. Receptive to my ideas. How could I not have seen this other side to him?"

"You just wanted to help, 'Mione. This isn't your fault."

"I was blinded by something," she explains. "I don't know what."

"Compassion."

Hermione scoffs. "On the contrary—I steam roll over anyone and everyone like no one's business. How can compassion be driving my actions when all I do is force myself into situations which I have no business being in?"

Harry laughs. "Hermione, you ought to dispel that idea immediately."

She sighs, lifting her finger and pointing it at the lumps of coal, restructuring the pieces surrounding Harry with the magic emulating from her digits.

"You're not a know-it-all, you don't have a hero complex, and you certainly aren't a steam roller. _Anymore_."

Hermione croaks with a staggered laugh, feeling the influence of Harry's sweet words ring in her mind.

"You are compassionate and caring, Hermione. Whether you know it or not. All the things you've done for them—when they sure as hell don't deserve it—illustrate that."

"They do deserve it," Hermione whispers.

"See? How can you possibly say you don't have compassion when you are probably one of the only people in the world who genuinely wants to help them?"

Hermione sighs and relishes in Harry's reassuring words. "Hearing your voice again makes me so happy, Harry. I'd love to see you soon. I'm going to be in Hogsmeade during the holidays for a bit—"

"Oh, brilliant! Where are you staying?"

"I'll just be there during the day," Hermione responds, tugging on a loose piece of thread hanging from her sweater. "Aberfield and Shacklebolt want me to keep an eye on the group while they take a break from the program."

"I see," Harry responds. "Well, why don't we meet for breakfast the day after next? There's a lovely little bakery just next to Tomes and Scrolls. Can you be there at around a quarter to eleven?"

Hermione exhales contently at the prospect of finally seeing Harry after months of being apart, sucked into their own worlds without a free moment to connect. "It's a plan, Harry."

"Brilliant. Look, I've got to run, now. You know the deal with Floo Powder—can't be here too long. We'll talk more about everything over tea."

"That's wonderful. Thank you, Harry."

"Everything will be alright, okay Hermione?"

"Yeah."

She tries to convince herself of the statement, but the biting of her upper lip denotes otherwise. Reveals the doubt she feels about the situation. About the safety of the Slytherins.

"It will be, 'Mione. You are the perfect person for this. Don't doubt yourself."

_The perfect person for this._

"Thank you for believing in me, Harry."

"Always."

As Harry's face sinks back into the warmth of the coals, Hermione becomes a little colder with his departure. She holds onto his words like a blanket over her heart, warming the organ with words she's been dying to hear from anyone.

When the glory of the war dawned on him, Harry raised Hermione without question. Named her his equal without a second thought.

Harry always believed in her. Always valued her. And he made sure to show it.

So, if she could wish for anyone in the world to be proud of her, it wouldn't be any superior, any boss, or any mentor that she'd come across. Not even the Minister of Magic himself.

It'd be Harry, without question.

-

Hermione feels the same sensation she underwent when dusk stretched its wings over the sky on Halloween—scared shitless.

She apparates from London to Hogsmeade late the next night, and immediately a head rush chafes the surface of her brain, brought on by significant distance between the two locations.

 _Merlin_ , she thinks to herself, _tonight's apparition back home is going to be dreadful._

Clutching her tweed jacket and crossing the flaps over her chest, Hermione wanders the desolate streets of Hogsmeade. She remembers spending her Saturdays in the quaint little town with Harry and Ron, wandering around in the warm sunlight even after snow would pile the sidewalks and streets. They'd laugh and frolic around with jubilation, relishing in their youth and innocence.

Now, Hermione roams the streets with different intentions and altered perceptions of the world around her.

For fuck's sake, she's meeting the group of Slytherins that tormented her over the past decade for drinks and dancing. Altered perceptions don't even _scratch_ the surface of her growth.

She turns her head left and right, searching for the Amortentia sign she remembers staring at with such fear on Halloween.

Tonight, she seeks it out with a brave heart.

She remembers what Theo told her about their apartment being only a few doors down from the pub-club hybrid; with natural deduction, Hermione passes the shops of Hogsmeade until her eyes reach the outskirts of the town. When she sees the sign of Amortentia swaying pleasantly in the brisk wind, she recognizes that she is on the right path.

_In more ways than one, potentially._

She counts seven doors to the right of Amortentia, arriving at a building around five stories high. It's defined by its run-down bricks and chipped façade, but the personality of the building screams acceptance and intrigue.

Recalling Theo's instructions, Hermione removes her wand from inside the arm of her long sleeve shirt, where she's always felt most comfortable harboring it whenever possible—glued to her forearm, accessible with just a tug. She points it at the sky.

"Periculum," she mutters, and little red sparks shoot from her wand up into the air. They collide with the atmosphere and explode in little fireworks, enough to garner the attention of several heads in a third-story window of the building just a few moments later.

As she slips her wand back into its home within the arm of her sleeve, she notices in her peripheral a body apparate just behind the front glass door. Hermione makes her way up the few steps of the building and spots Theo through the window.

Heaving open the door as Hermione advances, he calls out, "Granger! Come inside—you must be freezing."

She is. Her teeth chatter from being subjected to the cool December air. She'd taken Pansy's advice and worn something a little more revealing, and now her bare legs are shuddering in tandem with the wind.

Hermione suspects that her outfit still won't be enough to satisfy Pansy, but then again, Pansy had offered to lend her a dress just in case.

She'd banked on that offer, in fact. Hoped that she'd be able to hunt through Pansy's closet for a fun dress.

"Thanks," Hermione says as Theo guides her through the front door and into the apartment building. She notices the white paint of the walls chipped in random spots, and with minimal decorations in small lobby area, the building gives off a rather dull ambiance. But with the Slytherins occupying it, Hermione is confident that the building sees its fair share of excitement.

"It's nothing exquisite," Theo comments as he catches Hermione observing the interior. "But it's home. More of a home than anywhere else we've ever lived, for that matter."

Hermione smiles as she follows him to the staircase at the opposite end of the room.

"Careful coming up the stairs—they're a little steep. Need a hand?" Theo asks, extending his left arm to Hermione as they stand at the bottom of the staircase.

"That would actually be great, Theo," Hermione says, and she latches her hand over his forearm to steady herself.

Underneath his black Oxford shirt, Hermione can feel a surge of heat emanate from his skin, stemming right from where his mark lies.

She ignores the sensation for the time being, not wanting to spoil the night with questions about his mark. It's the last thing he needs to think about.

But as they continue up the second flight of stairs, Hermione accidentally jabs the front of her foot into a step. As she does so, she grips Theo's arm just a little tighter to ensure that she doesn't trip over herself.

Reacting to her stiffened clasp around his forearm, Theo seethes through his teeth and whispers, "Ouch."

"Oh, I'm sorry Theo, I didn't mean to hurt you—"

"Ahhh, no worries, Granger," Theo laughs. "Just a tight grip you've got, is all. Good thing you had me to hang on to."

"Yes," Hermione responds, nodding her head and masking her concern with a smile. "Lucky me." 

They continue in silence, and Hermione's brain spins with questions and concerns. Alarmed by the way Theo recoiled when she touched his arm, Hermione can't help but wonder whether the same thing happening to Pansy is now happening to Theo.

Whether it's happening to them all.

As they exit the stairwell, Theo guides Hermione through a hallway to the right, back towards the front of the building. He pauses right before the door, pivoting on his heels just as they reach the entrance.

"We're just lingering right now inside, but we'll be heading out soon. Apologies if it's a little... cramped in there."

"No worries."

He nods with an anxious smile and pushes the door open.

Hermione's eyes adjust to the scene before her, one that she certainly was not expecting.

Split into two groups—Daphne, Pansy, and Blaise on one couch, and Adrian and Draco on the couch opposite—the Slytherins lounge and chat with one another plainly. The living room is clean and smells of linen. Hermione had expected the smells to be more pungent, the atmosphere rinsed with the scent of smoke or firewood. Instead, she's pleasantly surprised with the cleanliness of the room and the fresh ambiance.

At the sound of the door squeaking open, all eyes dart to the door. Hermione grows conscious of the unseemly fact that she is here. Standing in their doorway. Invading their area where they feel liberated from the program.

She fears resentment, but those dreads are put to rest when Daphne gasps at the sight of her.

"Oh, Hermione! You're here!" Daphne squeaks, running over to Hermione and jumping into her arms.

The sound of her name reverberates: _Hermione._

Daphne called her _Hermione._

Her name hangs in the air as an addition to the ambiance, a testament to the continuation of building her relationship with each and every one of them, and a step closer to breaking down the artificial barriers that forced them apart years ago.

With Hermione swaddled in her arms, Daphne rocks her side to side in a fit of merriment.

"Come in! Come in!" Daphne says as she releases her from the hug. Theo closes the door behind them.

"Hey, Granger," Pansy says, hopping off the couch and stepping towards them. "Alright then, coat off! Let's see the outfit!"

Hermione apprehensively removes her winter coat, and Theo graciously takes it from her and hangs it on a hook to the right of the door. He sidesteps in front of Hermione and steals a kiss from Pansy before slipping into the bathroom on Hermione's right.

Feeling Pansy's eyes judge and contemplate her outfit, Hermione scrunches her face in apprehension. She'd worn something more revealing than last time—a black, leather skirt, one that has been hidden in the back of her closet for several years, and a tight-knit, scarlet sweater. Knee high boots cover the bottom of her legs, leaving her thighs as the only part of her body exposed.

But as she gawks at Pansy's plum-colored bodycon dress and Daphne's forest green, lace, double-piece skirt and blouse, Hermione realizes that she once again has it all wrong.

"It... It might not be right," Hermione mutters. "I don't have many clothes for clubbing."

Pansy clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth. "It's... I mean... it's cute..."

"It's a sweet outfit, but we can do sexier," Daphne says with a wink. "What about that cute little black dress you have, Pans? The silky one with the tiny straps? It's divine, and I know it will look absolutely stunning on Hermione."

Elated at hearing her name again, Hermione bids Daphne a small smile, yet she doesn't know whether wearing something too revealing is the right direction for her.

But when she looks past Pansy and Daphne and catches the sullen blonde staring at her, his eyes plastered on her bare thighs, something stirs within Hermione to accept the offer and see just how far those eyes will take him. 

"Yes, I think we ought to try something a little sexier." Pansy spins and smirks at Draco. "What do you think, Malfoy?"

Draco leans back further into the couch and stretches his arms across the length of the back, unresponsive.

Adrian playfully leans into Draco's opening against his shoulder, crosses his arms over his chest, and pops his legs up onto the couch. "A sight for sore eyes, Granger." He looks up at Draco, who sits on the couch, speechless.

His eyes return to Hermione: "This one thinks so as well."

"Adrian—"

"Your heart is beating like a fucking drum, Malfoy—"

"I could kill you right now."

Adrian raises his arms in submission and smirks. "Granger, you look great as is, but I can only imagine what Ms. Parkinson has in store for you."

"Oh, just you wait," Pansy says, gripping Hermione's wrist and tugging her towards her room on the right. Daphne squeals and claps her hands as she follows closely behind.

Stumbling over her heels to her closet embedded into the furthest wall from the door, Pansy thrusts the doors open and rummages through her outfits.

Hermione observes an overwhelming amount of dark clothing.

"I hope you're not offended that we want you to change," Daphne says.

"No, not at all," Hermione responds with a smile. "I don't really have clothes for this occasion, so I understand."

"Ah! Here it is!" Pansy pulls out a dress on a hanger and waves it in front of Hermione.

The material is shiny, reflecting against the one source of light etched into the ceiling of the room. Pansy tosses it across the room, and Hermione catches it, feeling the silky and soft material of the dress against her fingers. As she holds it up in front of her eyes, she realizes just how tiny the dress is.

Her breath fastens in her chest as she ponders two things about the dress: 

_This dress is fucking tiny_ , and _this dress is sure to rile Malfoy up._

"Oh, I don't know—" Hermione starts, letting the fabric hang loose in her explorative fingers.

"Just try it on, yeah?" Pansy asks hopefully. "It's so sexy. Come on—it'll look great on you. Really."

Hermione inhales deeply, which subsequently morphs into a nod. "Alright," she answers, shaking her head and clenching her teeth in excitement and nervousness. 

"Yes! Now, you have to pair it with these shoes." Pansy rummages through her closet and pulls out a pair of black pumps, higher than the heels of the boots which she currently wears. Higher than Hermione's used to wearing in general.

"Oh, wow, those are gorgeous," Hermione comments, stepping forward and receiving them graciously. She inspects the size of the heels—they have to be four inches tall. But the wide base of the heels reassures Hermione that they won't be impossible to walk in.

"If they're not your size, feel free to charm them to fit," Pansy says. "We also tend to charm the shoes so that they feel a lot more comfortable than they are, so don't worry about your feet hurting too much from dancing."

"That's ingenious," Hermione responds, gawking at Pansy and Daphne to relay her compliment.

"Yes, well, when you've been doing this for a while, you find little ways to make each evening a bit easier than the last," Pansy explains.

"We'll let you get dressed. Merlin, I'm so excited to see you!" Daphne says.

Pansy and Daphne exit the room and close the door behind them, leaving Hermione to gawk at the outfit before her.

She places the dress on the edge of Pansy and Theo's bed and begins to remove her clothes. Stepping out of her skirt and tugging her boots off, Hermione undergoes a sensation she can't quite comprehend.

On the one hand, she's terrified of what tonight harbors. She fears that she'll slip right into Draco's trap yet again. On the other hand, maybe that's exactly what she wants—to play the game. To tempt him, taunt him, drive him to his knees at the sight of her. Snatch his power right up in her fist and flail it in front of him as he kneels in front of her, mesmerized by her effortless control over him.

With that thought resting in her head, Hermione pulls her sweater over her head and sets it down on the bed. Now loose without the tension of the long sleeve securing it in place, Hermione's wand drops to the floor. She leans over to pick it up, twisting it between her fingers and pondering whether or not she'll bring it with her.

She prefers to carry it everywhere she goes as a shield, a sense of security, something to ensure her that she'll always be able to protect herself if she should need to do so.

Glancing down at the band of her underwear, Hermione resolves to slip the wand between the lining of her knickers and the skin of her thigh. It rests vertically near the inside of her thigh; she hopes that the dress will cover at least most of it. 

Hermione lifts the dress up to her head and slides it over her lingerie, letting the satin fall perfectly against her figure and rest comfortably on her waist. She has no need to charm the dress—it's a perfect fit, hugging each curve of her body with immense flattery.

There's just one catch—her bra sticks out of the fabric like a sore thumb.

Something about unclasping the bra and ripping it off her skin liberates Hermione. She feels the weight of restriction falter as she slides her arms out of the straps and holds the bra in front of her. The top of the dress rests perfectly situated on her free breasts, accentuating the curves yet leaving much to the imagination. She tosses the bra onto her sweater with a chuckle.

As she stands in the room and inspects herself in the small mirror hanging on the wall that is shared with the living room, Hermione lets her fingers trail up and down her arms. She yearns to be touched yet again by those strong hands of his—this time, though, against her bare skin and without the boundaries of clothing holding her festering temptations ransom.

Sliding her feet into the pumps and clasping the straps closed across the top of her feet, Hermione observes herself in the mirror once more, playing with her hair and creating a bountiful explosion of her locks. She tosses her tendrils up and down, styling her curls freely and letting them flop upon her bare shoulders. 

She looks... _incredible_. She's never been one for flattering herself, but she can't deny the feeling of excitement sweltering in her body as she stares at herself in the mirror.

Turning around and folding her previous clothes—the clothes that represent the old Hermione—she delicately places the pieces in the corner of Pansy's room.

She takes a deep breath and assumes her confidence, twisting the handle of the door to the left and pushing it open to step out into the living room once again.

As soon as she steps out, the clanking of her heels resounding against the wooden floor, the eyes of the Slytherins dart towards her.

"Oh, Granger. You are going to give me a fucking heart attack," Adrian comments, slapping a hand over his heart.

That comment is all she needs to garner the confidence to stretch her arms to her side in a moment of presentation.

Daphne gasps lightly as she rises from the couch. "You look outstanding!" 

"Absolutely," Blaise says with a smile. "You look great, Granger."

"Thanks, everyone," Hermione says, her eyes wandering towards Draco.

He just stares. Lounges back on the couch with his legs spread wide, staring at Hermione in an outfit he never expected to see her wearing.

He stares, but not like other times.

With his mouth hanging open ever so slightly, Draco stares like he's attempting to cement the image of Hermione in his mind. Like if he looks away for one second, he'll be deprived of the oxygen he needs to survive.

His perfect capsule. The pill he wants to swallow more than anything else.

The sound of Theo exiting the bathroom unhooks Draco's attention, and Hermione swivels her head to the source of the noise coming from her left.

Theo stops in his tracks and widens his eyes. "Holy hell, Granger. You're looking great."

"You recognize that dress, don't you?" Pansy says cheekily.

Theo strides towards his soulmate and delicately kisses her cheek. "Of course. It's been on my floor so many times—how can I forget?"

"Fucking hell, Nott, it also just hangs in your closet," Draco mutters.

"Don't you want to say anything nice, Malfoy?" Pansy asks, raising an eyebrow.

Draco turns back to Hermione and clears his throat. "Granger. You look..." he stutters, searching his mind for a joke, a snappy remark, anything sarcastic to say.

But nothing comes out. He just stares. And gulps.

"Kneazle got your tongue?" Adrian asks with a hint of sarcasm.

"I've... seen her look better—"

Draco immediately regrets it. And Hermione can tell.

Everyone can tell.

"Oh, yes! Let's reflect on that, shall we?" Adrian asks, satirically itching his chin with his index finger. "Well, there was the night of the Yule Ball—"

"Merlin's fucking ball sack, let's just go, please?" Draco groans, standing up and marching towards the door.

Adrian stands and winks at Hermione, who purses her lips through a smile she can't contain.

The Yule Ball feels like ages ago. What turned out of be a frustrating evening for Hermione might just have set a certain Slytherin's skin aflame with intrigue and desire.

And that insinuation is everything Hermione needs to roll back her shoulders, accentuate her figure, and stand proudly among the group before her.

As everyone congregates towards the door, Hermione notices that no one carries a coat with them. She looks at her bare arms and legs and deduces that without a coat, she will indefinitely freeze to death. And they'll all do the same.

"Aren't you all wearing your coats?" she asks, wrapping her hands around her opposite arms as if to preemptively warm her body.

"No need," Daphne says, locking arms with Hermione. "We're just going to cast a warming charm around us while we walk. It's only a few doors down, too. We'll be completely insusceptible to the chilly weather!"

"Wow, that's really inventive of you all," Hermione says with a smile, wishing that the world gave this group of witches and wizards much more credit.

"Adrian, you have the bags?" Draco asks as he fiddles with the top button of his shirt, letting it loose and tugging apart his lapels. Hermione gulps as his tattoos creep into her sight. 

"Yessir," Adrian responds, teasingly saluting Draco.

"The dramatics on you," Draco says, shaking his head and smirking slightly.

Adrian shrugs. "I can't help being the funniest person in this group."

"And we love you for it," Pansy says sweetly. "Now, let's go! Please!"

As they step out of the apartment, Hermione's mind wanders to whether she's placed her previous clothes in a tidy enough position in the corner of Pansy's room.

-

The stroll to Amortentia is brief; they arrive within a minute of walking outside. Warmth clouds their bare skin from shivering under the chilly night air, and Hermione feels an extra sense of security with her arm clasped tightly through Daphne's. They scamper down the sidewalk like the best of friends, Pansy flagging Hermione's right and smiling merrily with them.

When they enter the pub, Hermione recalls all the same fears she held on Halloween, but she immediately shoves them down as the group marches through the pub. Something about the confidence of their walk would've led Hermione to believe that they themselves owned the bloody place.

She never thought she'd be comfortable with this group—yet here she is. Pouring into a clandestine club with them a few days before Christmas.

A thought dawns over her: she's truly spending her holidays with the Slytherins.

"Bernard! Hey big guy!" Theo shouts as the group approaches the bouncer. He amicably places his hand on the man's shoulder. "Listen, I need the bathroom again tonight for a few minutes. Can you make that work?"

"You lot are like fucking dogs, you know that?" Bernard responds, raising an eyebrow and laughing at the sight of the group before him.

"Oh, you love us," Pansy says sweetly, shaking her head and puckering her lips playfully.

Bernard groans, but the curve of his lips in a smile tells another story. He rolls his eyes.

"Right, head on in, you lot. Whoa—"

His eyes fall on Hermione, and she immediately recognizes him as the bouncer from Halloween. She glances at the tattoos on his biceps and arms, cascading like waterfalls upon his skin.

"I remember you," he says. "It's been a while since you've been back, miss."

"Yes, well..." Hermione pauses. "Seemed better to come with some friends this time around."

"Ah, you mean these crazies?"

"I resent that term, Bernie," Adrian jokes, pointing his index finger at the bouncer.

"Yeah, yeah, off you go," Bernard says, gesturing them inside. "Stay safe tonight. Don't do anything too fucking cracked, you hear? Otherwise, Titus will hear about it!"

Theo blows air out of his mouth. "You know he doesn't care," he taunts through a grin.

"Is Titus in?" Draco asks.

"Should be downstairs in his usual spot," Bernard responds with a shrug of his shoulders.

"Snogging around with his little _friend_?" Blaise asks with a sly smile.

"As I'm sure everyone else is doing down there—and what you lot will also be doing, no question."

"You know us too well, Bernie!" Daphne concedes as the group stumbles forward into the dark stairwell.

"I'll say it again—don't do anything too wild!"

"No promises!" Adrian sings back.

They descend the same dark staircase, and Hermione suddenly becomes very aware of the pounding from the club below. It coincides with her heart, thumping against her chest at the same beat as the bass of the music against her feet.

She descends the staircase slowly, treading delicately against the steps with her tall heels. Adrian turns around and notices Hermione taking her time at the end of the line. He waits for her to reach him and holds his hand out. Hermione sighs and accepts his hand. They plod down the stairs, the heels of their shoes echoing through the chamber of the stairwell.

It's like a tunnel with a light beaming at the end of it, guiding them to a promised land, a haven, somewhere they can uninhibit their confined desires.

"Too wild?" Hermione clarifies Bernard's words, her lips sliding into a mischievous smile.

Adrian snorts. "Oh, Granger. You have no idea what you're getting yourself into."


	15. Chapter 15

**tw: vivid description of drug use**

Hermione wonders what it feels like to float on a cloud. Let the plush mix of water droplets and air ferry her through the pale, cerulean sky. Succumb to the flight and transcendence of her body above all other feelings and beings.

But as the group immediately convenes in the bathroom of Amortentia, thrusting the door closed with a chorus of laughs and snickers, and Hermione watches closely as Adrian pulls out from the right pocket of his slacks a dime bag chockfull of white powder, she realizes that it's not a cloud she'll be floating on tonight—no, she'll be gripping the mane of a wild stallion, sliding down the jagged edges of a golden lightning bolt, and maybe even dancing with the Devil himself in the hot pit of Hell.

Her back is glued to the door. As much as her feet want to step forward, she finds the adhesive hold of the door tugging her back, like she knows a step onward into the epicenter of the group will represent the commencement of an unknowable and unforeseeable journey, one she can't possibly plan or schematize but instead must dive into headfirst.

"You coming, Granger?" Blaise asks sweetly, turning towards her and extending his hand.

It's tempting. Oh, so tempting. She wants to burst forward and latch her hand around Blaise's, keenly accept his invitation into their world of recreation and hedonism.

Instead, Hermione's anxiety tells her otherwise. Logic sheathes her mindset, the part of her brain that controls her decisions. It vies for control—like it always does—harassing her frontal lobe with pestering _what ifs_ and _what would this person think_ and _how could you live with yourself if you go through with this?_

She's already stepped outside of her comfort zone today. Wearing Pansy's dress—without a bra, she might add—corroborates that statement.

How much further Hermione's courage will take her is indeed a mystery, an enigmatic figment of her conscience as she attempts to relax the strain in her shoulders, undoubtedly coursing down her arms and triggering her hairs to stand erect amidst the chilling and tantalizing atmosphere of the bathroom.

A gulp is all she can muster as the hungry eyes of the group stare at her questionably, patiently awaiting her response to their summons, their enticing offer of venturing into another world.

She feels the heat of Draco's eyes on her, studying the bends and nooks of her figure underneath the dress, and she wonders whether she'll feel his gaze tenfold under the effects of the drugs, just as he explained it to her months ago—the heightened senses, the overarching feelings of sensitivity, and the delicate quiver of her fingers.

She wants to feel them all. Truly, she does.

_So why won't the soles of her heels_ fucking _move_?

Recognizing her apprehension, Adrian approaches her, his lovable smile appearing sweeter than saccharine to Hermione. She eases her tension as Adrian stands just a foot away from her, softening his voice to a match the sweetness of his expression. "It's really not that bad. I promise."

"A lot of people say that they don't even feel that much their first time doing it," Pansy offers, her body appearing in Hermione's line of vision just behind Adrian's broad shoulders.

"Really?" Hermione asks, intrigued at the concept, captivated by the innerworkings of the very particles that make up the cocaine before her.

Pansy nods. "It really just depends on the quality of it, though. Lucky for us, Adrian picked up this batch earlier today."

"Made my little trip to Barnet and met with our lovely little friend in the alley behind our favorite record store," Adrian describes with a smirk. "And he assured me that this batch is something else."

Blaise steps forward. "Granger, would you be more comfortable if I ran a diagnostic over the drugs?" he asks, the tone of his voice a little higher and softer than usual. "It's not something we usually do, but if it'll help soothe your anxiety..."

Hermione bites her lower lip, not wanting to be a stick in the mud. Her head drops to gaze at the floor, at the way the soles of her feet shift and contort under the pressure of the heels.

Adrian leans forward, using the side of his index finger to lift Hermione's chin up, creating a moment of intense eye contact between them.

"Let's play our game for a moment," Adrian says, clearing his throat and gazing at Hermione with sincerity in his glimmering jade eyes, so much so that she swears all her worries dissipate. She doesn't even need to hear an explanation; any sound that Adrian emits stirs a feeling of security within her, one that resembles the same way she sees Harry.

"We will not impose any illicit or foreboding actions upon you," Adrian starts, his lips slanting in a mischievous smirk.

Hermione finds herself giggling, just like she always does around him.

"What we are going to ask, though, is that you try to relinquish your worries tonight. Just have fun. This—" Adrian holds the baggie in the palm of his hand, lifting it to occupy the warm space between their unevenly leveled faces— "this just helps you have fun. Makes you feel warm inside, like your muscles are bones are tanning under the perfect amount of sunshine. And believe me, it makes dancing, singing, shouting, moving, and even just breathing feel like fireworks."

Her eyes connect with Adrian's for a moment, then wander around his body to lock with Draco's. He stares at her placidly, hands shoved into the pocket of his slacks as he leans against a stall. The corner of his mouth raises in a smirk.

He practically speaks to her with his snarky gaze:

_You won't do it._

It's almost as if Hermione can hear Draco say it. Over the pounding of the bass on the floor and the ringing of the music filling her ears, Hermione can make out how Draco perceives her.

The game is afoot.

She smirks at him, relaying her message in her mind:

_Won't I?_

"Honestly, Granger, it's really not a big deal if you're uncomfortable—"

"I'll do it."

Adrian cheers mightily, simultaneously wrapping his arms around her waist, hoisting her into the air, and spinning her with glee. "Oh, fuck yes, Granger!" He places her back down on the floor and pulls away, clearing his throat and readjusting the lapels of his button-up.

"Just follow our lead, yeah?" Pansy affirms with a smile and a nod.

Hermione nods, and suddenly her feet are free from the adhesive grip of her qualms. They guide her to follow the group to the large, granite countertop on the right side of the bathroom. She flags behind them, observing as Draco drops to his knees, along with Theo and Pansy. Soon after, Adrian rushes Draco's left, handing him the bag and patting his shoulder for good measure. Hermione ebbs to the left of Blaise and Daphne, who tower behind the kneeling Slytherins and watch with pleasure as the scene unfolds.

Stopping just above Adrian, Hermione inhales deeply as she watches Draco unlatch the seal of the bag. She observes carefully as he tips the contents of the baggie out across the surface of the countertop.

Instinctively, she licks her lips. Doesn't know why, but the sight of the powder contrasting against the dark granite stirs the feeling of anticipation within her. Like her blood is screaming for it to coalesce with the pure chemicals in front of her.

Adrian glances up at Hermione, noticing the way she intently stares at Draco's hand as it guides the cocaine out of the bag. He scoots to the left, opening a space for Hermione to kneel and watch more closely.

"Spot's yours if you want it," he offers with a smile.

Hermione smiles, placing her hand on Adrian's shoulder for support and she drops to her knees, receiving a front-row seat to the playout of her future.

Setting the baggie down for a moment once the proper amount of cocaine is allocated, Draco digs into his pockets and pulls out a leather wallet; he dips his fingers inside the slip and pulls out an identification card, rough on the edges and worn from use.

As he shoves the wallet back into his pocket, Draco ever so slightly shifts his head to the left, glancing at Hermione for just a brief moment. His eyes lift slightly to reach hers, and the wing of his cherry lips rolls into a devilish grin.

_Yes, she'd be dancing with the devil tonight._

Draco begins to separate the pile of cocaine into seven separate lines, all perfectly divided by the careful maneuvering of his hand, as if the art of cutting up lines is something he's perfected, as if it's something that outshines his once expert magical skills. It's like a testament to his amputation from the wizarding world—as he cuts the cocaine with precision, Hermione wonders whether he feels reminiscent about things like potions class, where he'd skillfully slice ingredients and smirk in the quick completion of his assignments.

He uses the same techniques here as he did in that class, just for a wholly different purpose, representing a completely different world.

Once the lines are cut and sculpted to perfection, Draco lifts the card to his face and scrutinizes the edge, coated with tiny grains of cocaine. He swipes his finger against the edge, compiling the insignificant yet indispensable amount of powder onto his finger. He briskly rubs it into his gums and shoves the card back into his pocket.

From behind her, Hermione can hear Blaise shuffle through his pocket, pulling out a wad of banknotes and distributing them to each member of the group. Hermione takes her willingly; she's cognizant that they're supposed to roll the bills, but she doesn't know the strategy for doing so.

She turns her head to the left to watch as Adrian's nimble fingers spin the banknote into itself, and suddenly the face of the Queen disappears behind the blue and white colors, and the bill becomes like a straw. He rolls it tightly but ensures to leave enough room for a clear presence of a passage, one where the cocaine can easily shoot up and meet its temporary home before it dissolves into nothingness, a mirage of the night they'll all experience.

Hermione begins to roll hers the same way, and soon she's crafted her tube. And as everyone begins to settle in their spots, preparing to snort the powder before them, undergo the overwhelmingly pleasant sensations, Hermione feels her breath catch in her chest.

With a pat on her bare thigh from Adrian, she finds herself exhaling into bliss, all occurring before she's even sniffed the substance that's supposed to do that very job.

"Check it out, Granger," Adrian says, holding the rolled banknote above his line and shoving the top just inside his right nostril. "It's simple, okay? Just count to three."

To her right, she hears the ensemble of the others snorting their dose, then consequently pinching the bridges of their noses as their eyes roll back, clench shut, and widen with thrill.

Her focus falls onto Draco, who knocks the cocaine back so effortlessly that it's like magic to watch. He doesn't squirm, doesn't whimper, doesn't make a fucking sound—just inhales the chemicals and lets them fester in his system.

"Watch me, okay?" Adrian instructs, and Hermione obliges as he swipes the banknote across the counter, the white grains disappearing the further he presses forth. Suddenly, they're gone, lifted into his nose with ease and sinking into his system like a knife slicing into warm butter. It's effortless and enchanting.

He licks his finger, dabs his moist index digit against the remaining grains, and rubs them into his gums in a similar fashion as Draco.

Hermione musters up every ounce of her courage and holds the banknote above the powder.

"So, just line it up and—"

She doesn't even heed Adrian's advice because she's too occupied inhaling the cocaine through the banknote.

The moment it contacts the walls of her nose, she feels a slight burn. Nothing too painful, just a sharp sensation that says _yes, she is fucking doing this. She just snorted cocaine with the group of Slytherins she's trying to rehabilitate._

She gasps slightly, knocking her head back to beg for fresh air. There's a faint chemical taste, but it fades after a moment as she naturally wets her mouth. And there's an odd feeling in the back of her mouth, like the sensations are trickling down and spreading across the roof of her mouth.

Maybe it's a placebo effect, but Hermione swears she can feel the insides of her nose grow almost numb.

"Fucking badass!" Pansy shouts from the other side of Draco, and Hermione feels herself return to earth.

"Should take a few minutes to settle," Adrian explains, standing up and offering his hand to Hermione.

As Hermione recollects her bearings and cranes her neck to the side, she notices another offering hand to her right.

It's Draco's.

His hand lingers in the air, waiting for hers to mold against his, anticipating a spark upon contact, as if Hermione's touch will somehow boost the effects of his high.

"Let me help you up, Granger," Draco says, but it comes off as more of an order.

And she's not looking to disobey.

Her right hand reaches up and grasps his, and she suddenly returns to the night of Halloween, evoking the thoughts and sensations of Draco's hands upon her body, wildly exploring her figure. Transported to that moment, she stares into Draco's eyes as he guides her up, and quickly she's begins to feel her heart pound in her chest, beating against her ribcage like it's dying to be free.

"Off we go, yeah?" Blaise asks, rounding up Daphne and guiding her towards the door, towards the mesh of possibilities awaiting them in the club. The group nods excitedly, and they pile out of the bathroom quickly and shove their way through the pulsing crowd of dancing bodies. Securing a spot in the middle of the floor, Pansy and Daphne reach for Hermione to join them.

She's tugged out of Draco's grip, but she has an intuition that she'll be back there soon.

Minutes later, as Hermione is dancing with Daphne and Pansy, she begins to feel it.

Well, she feels something.

It could be the cocaine. Could be the chemicals triggering the dopamine in her brain and sending it straight for her veins.

But it could also just be her intimate thoughts and desires coming to fruition under the blinding heat of the strobe lights, as if they're interrogating her for her secrets, coercing her to spill them in the limelight.

Either way, Hermione finds herself dancing wildly, her arms waving in the hot air and her hips swaying fluidly against the swarms of people surrounding her.

It's just like Draco said—she can hear, see, smell, feel, and even taste everything around her. Her vision grows slightly hazy, and she assumes that her dilated pupils are to blame.

But what she really feels is bold, confident, and outstandingly courageous. Not that those aren't already inherent traits of hers—they've simply been multiplied under the drugs, streaming through her mind at double the pace.

The adrenaline in her body takes over; under the bright lights, the throbbing music, and the intoxicating atmosphere of the club, Hermione finally lets herself fall privy to the ambiance.

She lets out a yell, saturated with emotional pleasure and electric flames.

Pansy and Daphne dance in front of her, coaxing her towards them with kittenish invitations, their fingers curling and flicking towards them to summon Hermione. She obliges, and suddenly she's lodged in a Pansy-Daphne sandwich, and they're dancing upon one another in total elation.

In front of their train, Hermione watches as the boys all dance with one another, their bodies flowing with the sounds of the music. Even Draco—usually so stiff and taut, as if it's a personality trait—lets the vibrations ebb his body back and forth, and Hermione can't help but wonder what it would feel like to be back in those arms.

Adrian gawks at the sight of the Hermione dancing with Pansy at her front and Daphne at her back. He throws his arms in the air and shouts over the blaring music, "Ha-ha! Bloody hell, you're wonderful, Granger!"

Hermione cheers and throws her head back, her arms reaching to the heavens like she's trying to claw her way to bliss.

"Yes!" Adrian shouts again. "That's it! Go on, you brilliant little minx!"

"I think it's safe to say that the cocaine is working, yes?" Daphne yells into Hermione's ear.

"Yes!" Hermione cries back. "I can feel it! I can really feel it!"

"Well done, Granger!" Pansy cries, and then they're all screaming yet again, their voices colliding with the music in an attempt to soak in it.

Hermione dances and dances for what feels like hours—though it's only been minutes since she's inhaled the drugs. Yet everything—even time itself—seems to slow down as she rolls her neck in a circle and lets the air crash against her skin.

When she resettles her head in the center and gazes out of her periphery to the left, she spots a man dancing several feet away. He's eyeing her, staring her down and flicking his tongue across his lips as if to denote his carnal intentions.

She's certain that the drugs are working, because in a sudden burst of confidence driven by nothing more than her desire to feel someone's body against hers, Hermione squeezes out of the middle of Pansy and Daphne and staggers over her high heels towards him.

"I'll be right back!" she calls out to the girls, and before she can receive a response from them, she's floating towards the stranger, who turns his body to face hers as a welcoming gesture.

When Hermione reaches the man, she smiles at the sight. He's tall and dark, his skin like olive and his eyes cut straight from stars. His curly locks rest across his forehead, damp with the secretions of temptation that drew Hermione towards him in the first place.

"Aren't I a very lucky man," he coos, eyeing Hermione up and down and licking his lips at the sight of her taut body.

"Yes, you are," Hermione responds with total confidence, extending her hand and letting it rest on his elbow.

"Dance with me."

Hermione inches towards his face, flicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth. "I'm way ahead of you," she moans, and suddenly she's spinning around and thrusting her back against him, grinding against his compliant body—his muscular, warm body. She moves fluidly against him, letting her left arm creep its way up and wrap around his head, her hands sinking into his locks and pushing the back of his head further towards her. The movement coaxes him into her neck, and when he breathes upon her jugular and begins to suck her skin lightly, Hermione closes her eyes and tries to enjoy the sensations.

It's a comfortable dance, but it's not exciting. Nothing like Halloween.

And when her eyes flutter open and she looks in front of her, she spots Draco in the crowd, several feet away, staring her down.

She becomes very aware of the severity of his glares; they're the only thing she can focus on.

In an instant, the feeling of the man behind her becomes secondary. She knows his hands are traveling up and down her body, but the only thing she can feel is the daggers shooting from Draco's eyes, stabbing her square in the chest.

In a moment of conviction, Hermione decides to pick up the game where they left off weeks ago. Decides it's time to revisit Draco's pressure points. 

She falls deeper into the stranger's arms, her hips swaying more visibly against his lower half. And she lets her mouth fall slack, denoting her pleasure and enjoyment.

All of which is fake, but it nevertheless sends Draco into a fit of silent rage.

All the while, her eyes remain glued to Draco's. She stares him right down, relishes in the anger spreading across his face as she dances with and relinquishes herself to the touch of another person.

Then suddenly, Draco is yanking the arm of a woman to his right and throwing her in front of him. And the woman is wholly receptive. She begins to dance against him, and Draco's hands roam freely against her body.

Another sensation stirs in Hermione as she watches his hands cloak the woman's body: jealousy.

_He's playing her right back._

_Fucking_ bastard.

The rushing adrenaline in her body commands her to push further, do more, try anything she can to get a reaction out of him. Solidify her rightful place as the one with the power.

She grips the stranger's head behind her and forces it against her neck; heeding her request, he begins to lap his tongue against her pulse wildly, like the taste of her skin is everything he needs to breathe.

_It's... the feeling isn't... as enjoyable..._

But, for the purpose of putting on a show, Hermione throws her head back and moans.

When she returns to look at Draco, she sees that he's sucking the girl's throat as well.

But those eyes. They're still staring straight at Hermione.

Go further, a voice tells her.

Daringly, Hermione spins around and throws her arms over the man's shoulders, breaking eye contact with Draco for just a few seconds so she can successfully maneuver the man around; she switches positions as they twirl 180 degrees, and almost instantly she's pushing her body back against his. As she settles her chin upon his shoulder and grips the back of his shirt with her fingernails, she reconnects eye contact with Draco. And she tilts her neck to the side to allow the stranger to kiss her throat even more.

The heat of her glare pierces through the strobe lights, the atmosphere, every fucking particle in the club to reach Draco.

He instigates the next move—raises the stakes to stay alive in the game. He takes his hand and places it up against the woman's jugular, pressing his fingers ever so slightly into her skin. The woman knocks her head back and turns it to the side to feverishly kiss his cheek, and all the while Draco still holds his eye contact with Hermione.

Hermione digs her fingernails into the man's back, her bottom lip latching onto his shoulder and dragging up in a sensual motion.

Draco runs his other hand up the side of the woman, ensuring that he feels every single bend and curve of her body.

Hermione tugs the stranger's outside cheek, forcing his head towards her and allowing him to slip his tongue into the cavity of her ear.

Draco tugs on his stranger's hair, exposing her bare neck and tracing his fingers up and down her jugular.

Hermione moans.

Draco grits his teeth.

Her next move is everything; driven by her tunnel-vision, she feels the light of victory loom so close before her that she can practically taste it.

Hermione jerks the man to the side and drives her lips against his.

It's messy and chaotic, defined by nothing more than a desire to piss off Draco. Nevertheless, their lips join together in wet and fluid motions, and Hermione holds back her displeasure with the sensation as she feverishly latches her mouth against his.

And when she opens her eyes and twists her head to the left, still kissing the man but simultaneously searching for Draco's expression, all she can see is the girl he was dancing with now standing alone.

_Checkmate._

Hermione pulls her lips away from the stranger and scours the crowd, searching for Draco in the hopes that she can savor in her victory in front of him, watch as his expression fluctuates from anger to distress as she forces him to relive the moment.

"What's wrong?" the man asks, fastening his hands tighter around Hermione's waist.

Hermione glances back at the man and scrunches her nose. "I have to go."

"Wait, what—"

Before he can finish, Hermione successfully wiggles out of his grasp and storms through the crowd, searching for Draco.

She lets the palpitations of her heart carry her through the stations of immense sensations—her ears receiving the music, her nose inhaling the odors of lust, and her eyes catching each strobe of light as it strikes in front of her eyes. The taste of the stranger's mouth lingers on her tongue, and she wishes for nothing more than to not only dispel that taste but replace it with another. Her head pounds from a rush of adrenaline, and her skin sizzles with the desire for his hands.

_Draco's_ hands.

She has an idea of where he's retreating to—it's a habit she's picked up on over the past few months. When things get difficult, Draco evacuates to a place made for total privacy. It doesn't even bother her that yet again, she's forcing her way into his moment of desired seclusion.

As she pushes through the crowd, she spots a patch of blonde hair disappearing into the bathroom.

"Malfoy!" she calls out, but the door is already closed by the time she says his name.

She reaches the door, and without hesitating—because she simply can't be bothered to think straight anymore, not when her body is acting with a mind of its own—she thrusts it wide open.

And there he is, engaging in his usual sullen fest. He leans against the sink, his jaw clenched, and the veins in his hands protruding out of his skin as he grips the side of the counter.

The door closes, and Draco's head leaps up.

"Why'd you run off?" Hermione asks satirically, a smirk topping off the sheer mien of victory.

"Fuck off," Draco says, leaning against the granite and ignoring her question.

"Are you mad because of what you saw?" she slurs, taking a step towards him.

Draco scoffs. "That cocaine is making you too confident for your own good, Granger."

"Come on," she says, letting the tip of her tongue stick out between her teeth and touch the air, sample the tension of the atmosphere on her taste buds. "You're mad because of what I did with that guy. What I could've done with you."

She pauses to his right, placing her right hand on the counter next to his. Mustering up the confidence sweltering within her, the cocaine being its conductor, Hermione leans over towards his ear.

When she presses her chest against his arm, Draco's skin dances at the feeling of her free breasts crowding against his bicep. His breath becomes unsteady as he grips the edge of the countertop tighter, digging his nails into the granite, desperately trying to ignore his emotions, dispel the dirty thoughts he harbors, and resist reaching out to graze Hermione's bare skin. He shivers with a tension so undefinable he feels his brain turn to mush just thinking about it.

Enhancing the confidence which the cocaine stirs in her, Hermione bows forward further into Draco's arm, hovers her cherry lips right upon the opening of his ear, and sensually whispers, "What you wish I would've done with _you_."

She doesn't even know where that sentence comes from. But she can see and feel Draco shake with the promise of a reaction, and it causes Hermione to grin with victory.

Draco slowly twists his head to the right, gazing at Hermione with fire, lust, and abject rage in his eyes.

"That's—"

"Don't deny it," she's quick to interrupt, intent of retaining the upper-hand, satisfied by the way his lips quiver when she disturbs his line of thought. "It's written all over your face." And she's licking her lips, biting her tongue, craning her neck to the side to truly give Draco an idea of the hold she has over him. His eyes follow the slope of her neck, then travel further south to glance briefly at the crest between her breasts, visible beneath the silky material of her dress.

"Merlin," she sighs, "It's so pathetically obvious."

"I'm warning you, don't push me—"

"Or what?" she asks through a staggered laugh, each beat hitting Draco's nerves like torrential rain against a skylight. "You know, you threaten me quite a bit, Malfoy, but those threats are always rather empty."

"Granger—"

"You bite those words down and they seep right back into your throat," she continues, pivoting her body so that she leans her behind upon the granite countertop. She inspects Draco to her right, pestering him to glance her way. But he stares forward, eyes fixated on his reflection in the mirror before him. "Are you ever _really_ going to do anything?"

Draco chuckles, a nefarious grin growing on his face, and Hermione wonders whether she'll slip from her position of power.

She's desperate to hold on.

"That cocaine is making you incredibly bold," he slurs in return, finally turning to face her. "I wonder how far it will take your little courage."

"Far," she hisses.

"Really?" he asks, pushing himself off of the counter and pacing one foot to his right, arranging himself right in front of Hermione. With a lustful step forward, Draco successfully traps Hermione between his arms, his head hovering just above hers.

And just like that, the power struggle shifts. The atmosphere in the room morphs into one too thick to breathe in; Hermione feels her chest leap forth, the poundings from her heart and gut working in tandem as Draco inches forward just a little bit more.

She's caught in the headlights, wedged between the conflicting emotions regarding her deepest desires. And her gut is aching, tender with the distant yet somehow alarmingly close gap between them.

Hermione doesn't think through her next action. She just does it. In a fluid motion, she hikes her dress up just a few inches to gain access to the wand still notched between the band of her underwear and her skin. Draco's eyes shoot down to observe the sight, and when he realizes that she's hold a wand to him, he stumbles backwards.

Aiming her vine wood wand at Draco, she sneers. " _Really_ ," she answers him.

He backs away but laughs simultaneously. "You pulling a wand on me, now? Are you scared of me, Granger?"

"On the contrary. You're the one with fear written on your eyes."

"You're seeing things," he attests, shaking his head slowly. "Been too much of a naughty girl tonight with those drugs."

"Just having a bit of fun, is all."

"Yeah? You're having fun?"

"I am."

The way Draco licks his lips, moistens them with the gloss of his clandestine temptations, causes Hermione's knees to shake slightly. She holds the wand between her fingers as firmly as possible, assuming all the strength she has left—all the strength that hasn't yet been tested by Draco—to continue to stare him down, uncover his secrets with her eyes, peel back the layers, the multiple idiosyncrasies, the fucking infinite stratums which characterize her enemy.

"You feeling angry, too?" Draco asks. "Want to get that frustration out?"

"Don't tempt me," she says through gritted teeth, almost wholly resolute on hexing him.

"Why? You certainly like it. Being tempted."

Hermione seethes through her teeth, feeling a rush of adrenaline pump through her body and inflate her muscles. She's pissed. Furious. Desperate to get her anger out.

Craving to let him be the one to guide it out of her.

"You want to get that anger out? Channel it into something a little more productive?"

Yes.

"I want to hex the shit out of you right now," she spits.

"Me and who else?"

She recoils in his diversion, and the contest for power continues between the two, a dance choreographed perfectly for them and no one else. Nothing can compare—not in the slightest—to the built-up and ever-growing tension which the two conceived years ago.

Everything that has been compiled and stored away into their boxes—the feelings, the memories, the desired sensations—pours out before them through this evening's repartee.

"Come on," Draco says, "Let's play the game, Granger. Let's see how much of a reaction I can get out of you. Let's see whether you spit flames or daggers from that little mouth of yours."

The tension surges as the bass from the music outside seeps through the floor and up the soles of their shoes.

"I'll say a name, and you tell me how much you want to hex them. How much you hate them. Let's see just how long we can last."

She inhales deeply through her nose, still slightly numb from the drugs but slowly becoming more sensitized to the scents around her—the fucking pheromones coiling through each oxygen atom. It suffocates her; she asphyxiates on the atmosphere.

She doesn't care. She's undergone a withdrawal of her own—a secession from the ripostes she so enjoys engaging in with him. Asphyxiate she will if it means containing this banter.

"Why don't we start with our friends from the Ministry," he says, pacing clockwise back towards the sink, and Hermione stalks his movements with her wand still aimed at him. They land in a line parallel to the sink and the stalls, Hermione's back facing the door that leads back to the club. "Who would you love to hex over there?"

"All of them."

"Yeah? All of them?"

She heatedly nods.

"How about that fucking prick Aberfield, huh? Remember all the things he did to us? Remember how he put those trackers in us? Forced medicine down our throats without proper consent? Threatened us with our own suites at St. Mungo's? Or maybe how he ignores you—the most brilliant witch of her age—and treats you like his fucking assistant every mother _fucking_ day? You want to hex the shit out of him?"

"Yes," she seethes, thinking about everything he's done to them—everything he's done to her. All the lies, the unethical actions, and the fucking patronization.

"I want you to let that anger out, Granger," Draco instructs. "Take it out on something in this very bathroom."

The old Hermione would worry about property damage, an authority figure finding her, or the consequences of such aggressive and intemperate actions.

This Hermione—the one with cocaine dancing in her bloodstream that urges her to act recklessly—sends a jinx from the tip of her wand towards one of the sinks to her right. As the violet sparks collide with the faucet, the metal combusts and shoots into the air under the pressure of the burst pipe. Water spurts from the disconnected spout.

Hermione's eyes widen and her mouth hangs slack jawed.

Draco, on the other hand, blazingly widens his smile. "Ha! There's the Granger I know so well! All flustered and angry! The one who just loves to let her anger run free! Feels good, doesn't it?"

_He's got her_ , she thinks. _Fuck, he's got her right where he wants her._

"Now, what about our Healer, huh? What do you think of that fucking bitch?"

"I hate her," Hermione answers, and then without even thinking she's shooting another spell at the sink. This time it collides with the second faucet, and the pipe bursts and water surges from the uncovered nozzle like the gush of a fountain in the moment of a climactic torrent.

"I hate that bitch too! Who else? Come on, Granger, I know there's more people. What about our bright Minister of Magic? The oaf who won't listen to you? Who won't trust you, even after you two fought in a war together? How do you feel about him?"

Hermione doesn't hate Kingsley. She doesn't.

But she says it anyways.

"I hate him!"

And she's hurling another spell in the same direction, this time connecting with the granite countertop. It cracks in half, like how an earthquake can split the earth in half with just a rumble. All it takes within Hermione is a similar sensation to break through the threshold of her anger and wreak chaos on anything in her way.

"Keep going!" Draco shouts over the colossal noises, the echoes of the water jetting from the nozzles and colliding with the wall above them. "I know there's more people—more anger! Who else? Doesn't even need to be a Ministry worker! Come on, dig deep, Granger! How about the _fuckers_ that started it all, huh?"

"I hate Voldemort!" Hermione cries out, and she shoots another spell at the countertop.

"Keep going!"

"Bellatrix! Dolohov! Mulciber! The Carrows! All of them!"

With each name, another burst of light emanates from her wand.

"Who else?"

Hermione groans at the way he's coercing her to show her aggressive side. She glares him right in the eyes and screams, "I hate _you_!"

" _Yeah_? You hate me?" Draco screams back, flailing his arms to the side.

"Yes! I hate you! Fuck you!" Hermione shrieks.

"Say that again!"

"You're the worst! You're the fucking worst for making me do this! I hate what you're doing to me!"

"No!" he yells back. "This is all you, Granger! I'm simply helping you bring out that fire! But this is all your anger!"

"You're coercing me! You're... You're—"

She suddenly realizes the mess she's caused in the bathroom—the water flowing over the floor, the broken pieces of the countertop, and the disconnected metal from the sink.

Hermione begins to lower her wand, but Draco isn't keen on allowing the game to stop just yet.

He _tsks_ and darts towards her. "Not so fast, Granger."

Draco's right hand reaches towards hers, and he vehemently wraps his hand around her fingers. Swinging around to swathe her back with his chest, Draco recreates the picture they conceived on Halloween. With his left arm snaking around Hermione's waist, his right hand lifting hers back up in front of her, and his chin nestled on her right shoulder, Draco snatches the power right out from under her.

And when he presses his torso against her backside, exhibiting no mercy against her all too sensitized skin, Hermione lets out a gasp at the all too delicate and enhanced emotions festering within her, scratching at the membrane of her skin to surface and materialize as goosebumps and prone hairs.

"Keep going," he growls in her ear. "I want to watch that dragon come out of you." He presses up against her tighter, the outline of his figure all too clear for Hermione to map out against her back. His broad muscles, defined abs, and smooth skin poking out of the top of his shirt. "I want to _feel_ your anger writhe through every inch of your body." His arm tightens around her waist, and she undergoes a déjà vu more exciting and arousing than ever before.

Using his left hand to push against her waist, Draco leads Hermione to turn a little to the left. His fingers on hers, Draco latches tightly onto Hermione's hand, steadying the barely noticeable yet still existing trembles that rush through her digits. He guides her to point her wand at one of the stalls.

Draco sucks in a breath through his teeth just beside her ear, and the sound alone drives her ever closer to the apex of her patience. In a matter of seconds, the magic from her wand blows the door off its hinges.

Draco yanks her back as the door flies towards the sink and collapses onto the floor in the already accumulated puddle of water.

He laughs slowly in her ear, the vibrations coinciding with Hermione's flutters. A smile creeps on her face, one formed out of the exhilaration of the moment.

"That one was for me," Draco whispers. "Because you _hate_ me."

Hermione begins to center herself again, and she twists her head to the right ever so slightly to match his level. Their breaths coincide in the heat of the moment.

"I do hate you."

"Good. I hate you too. And you know who else I fucking hate?"

Hermione shakes her head, enchanted by the look in his eyes as his face lingers barely inches away from hers.

"That fucker you kissed."

Hermione's eyes widen. She feels the ghost of the man's lips against hers, but when Draco slides his left hand up the center of her chest, his fingers dragging and tracing against her sternum, the man's lips are gone, and all she can think about is how Draco is inches away from grazing across her bare breasts. One move to the left or right and she'd fall privy to anything he'd say.

"And do you want to know why, Granger?"

As Draco's fingers drop again and rest just below her chest, she exhales an assertive breath. "Because I gave him something you wanted," she mutters.

" _Precisely_ ," he growls, and then his hand is back to her stomach, his fingernails dragging against the fabric; even with the boundary of the dress, Hermione can feel every single thing he does. Every place he's touched, like he's drawing constellations on her, like he's trying to create the perfect piece of art, the stroke of his fingers against her body a visual perfect enough to display in any home, museum, or fucking palace if one pleases.

_You're a little fucking tease, aren't you?_

Those were his words that night. And they'd be her words tonight.

"Because I'm a tease," she echoes, the words spilling out of her mouth without her even contemplating the implications.

With a laugh strong enough to act as Hermione's vice, Draco's left hand rises and slowly begins to toy with the left strap of her dress, lifting it up and down and sliding his fingers across her collarbone.

She can't help it. She whimpers as his silky fingers traverse beneath the band and down her chest, trailing the area just above her bare breasts.

"Now you're getting it," he whispers in her ear, his hands now freely exploring her bare skin, unbound by the obstacle of any fabric. Free to roam across her body as he pleases, just as her daydreams expected. "And I bet you hate that girl, huh? The one whose body my hands were all over? Hm?"

He continues to trace her bare skin, and Hermione sings praises to every spirit on earth for forcing her to wear this dress.

"You watched, and you got angry."

"Well, so did you."

He chuckles. "Yes," he slurs, gently placing his lips on the back of her ear. "I was angry. I am _still_ angry."

At the feeling of his lips puckering against her sensitized skin—a part of her body she craves more exploration of—Hermione lets out a quiet moan. She lifts her free hand to her mouth, biting down on the tips of her fingers to mask any further sound.

She's mortified at the sound, but it's music to Draco's ears, paramount to a fucking award-winning soundtrack that retells the story of his life.

A life where's he's secretly pined for her. Desired her. Craved her. _Required_ her.

"I'll be honest with you, Granger." He pauses. "Would you like that—would you like me to tell you the truth? Let you in on a little secret of mine?"

Hermione vigorously nods, her verbal answer lodged in the back of her mouth. She can't speak, can't think, can't fucking breathe with Draco's arms around her. She feels like she'll fall into oblivion in any moment, sink into his embrace and morph into a puddle of total enamor.

"That girl felt nothing like you. Looks nothing like you. Not with this dress on. You don't know how good you look wearing this simple piece of fabric." Draco drops his head and tilts it to the side to place a kiss on Hermione's neck, sucking over the spots that the other man left.

"What are you—"

"And she tasted nothing like you do right now," he slurs, and his tongue gently massages the red spots on her neck, claiming them as his own—not simply taking credit for them, but going so far as to one-up the man who placed them there with his own marks, his own love bites, his own representations of just how much he wants to taste and drown in her sweet skin.

"You still hate me?" he asks, breathing hot air over the moist parts of her neck, dampened only moments ago through his doing.

She nods. "Yes."

"You hate the girl I was doing this to?"

"Mhm," Hermione moans.

Draco snickers. "Good. Then do as I say."

Suddenly, Draco spins Hermione around; she almost trips over her heels, but she's able to steady herself with the sheer force of the universe on her side. He takes several steps back, and Hermione grows cold without his touch.

Raising his hands up in the air as if he's under arrest, Draco instructs Hermione to do the following: "Hit me. For that girl. Since you hate her. Release that anger and hit me with a spell."

She just stands there, staring at him, her eyes hazy with the revoked euphoria of his touches.

"Come on, I know you want to. I know you want to fucking hex me. So, do it."

Her wand is extended, hand is shaking, and her eyes are flaming with anger.

She wants to do it.

"Go on, hex me."

She's livid. Enraged that he's once again toyed with her, forced her to project her unbridled anger on an innocent bathroom, and almost brought her to her knees when she was supposed to be the one to do so. Her skin craves more and cries out for him as he stands a few feet away.

Hexing him doesn't seem like the worst idea.

"You are the fucking worst—"

"Do it."

"I _really_ hate you right now, Malfoy—"

"Yeah? Are you mad that I touched that girl in the same way I touched you? Maybe even better? With a little more intrigue and lust?" he asks a little louder.

"Fuck you!" she cries out, and her hand wraps tighter around her wand, but fucking hell it wishes his was still latched onto hers to steady it.

"Come on, Granger," he says, inching closer to her again, and suddenly she feels like her guts are in her throat. Draco presses his sternum into the tip of her wand, the sheer act bringing her quaking hand to a pause as she stabilizes and centers the course of the magic. "Do it. Show me just how angry you are. Show me just how much you hate me."

The hue of his silver eyes deepens for a moment, and Hermione swears she can see right through him. As the crash of the water resounds behind her, and the bottom of her shoes become damp with the flooding, Hermione insists that Draco Malfoy is staring at her in the most genuine way possible.

He's undeniably turned on.

At her anger. He's turned on by it.

Before she can hurl a hex against his chest, the bathroom door swings open.

"What the _fuck_ happened in here?"

It's Titus, standing in the doorway, with the group surrounding him.

Hermione quickly adjusts the strap on her dress that rests on her bicep. She glances at her wand, unsure what to do with it, knowledgeable that she's clearly the one to blame for the mess.

She's shocked when Draco instinctively paces backwards to shield Hermione from Titus' rage.

"Titus—"

"What in _Merlin's_ name have you done to my bathroom?" Titus shrieks, stepping inside and trotting upon the overflowing water.

"Holy shit," Adrian shouts over the music, "What the hell did I miss!"

Suddenly, Hermione is sober. She's all too aware of the scene she's instigated, the damage she's caused, and the implications she's unsealed from deep within her darkest desires.

Titus stomps through the water and charges at Draco. "Draco Malfoy, you have some explaining to do—"

Hermione doesn't realize she's doing it until she actually does it, but she grips Draco's arm for protection. Wraps her fingers around his elbow in a moment of shame and mortification.

"It was me! It was me!" Draco shouts, extending his free arm—the one Hermione isn't clinging onto—to stop Titus in his tracks, implore him to not come any further. "This was my fault, my mistake, my temper tantrum—"

"No, this was me!" Hermione concedes, but Draco twists his head sharply and stares down at her, the same look painted in his eyes the day Aberfield tied him down to the chair. The same look that admits his complacency in the matter.

He looks at her, and his eyes day, _don't._

_Don't?_

How can she not take the blame for this? How can she stand here and allow Draco to be chastised, reprimanded, and charged with her actions?

Suddenly, her vision clears, and she has a much better understand of Draco and his eyes.

Whether he's angry or lustful, they're filled with fire, and are wholly capable of destroying her, in good ways and bad ways.

When he's remorseful, they're filled to the brim with a tinge of shame, colored like the full moon on a night it knows will stir nothing but anxiousness in the hearts of those who fear it.

She doesn't fear his eyes, but they nevertheless twinkle with a look of regret, as if he wishes they had more time to press one another further.

If not tonight, then another night would suffice. Until then, Hermione is content in the knowledge that she's finally able to read Draco's eyes a little clearer now. She hopes, in time, that they'll succumb even further to speculation.


	16. Chapter 16

Just like that, the earth mercilessly pulls them apart once again.

While Titus engages in a heated conversation—a one-sided scold fest, more accurately—with Draco, Hermione finds herself swathed in the arms of Adrian and Daphne, and she's slightly shaking, trying to process and recover from the cataclysmic meltdown she underwent in the bathroom of Amortentia earlier.

_She's not this weak, not this easily rattled_ , but Hermione can't unsee the things she did in that cold bathroom, can't swallow the sensual words she whispered, can't unbreathe the same iotas of the erotic atmosphere she shared with Draco.

She doesn't want to, anyway. She just wishes that it hadn't stopped so bloody soon.

It's as if she's anticipating the end of a joke but instead is left in the midst of an unfinished punchline and an eerie and embarrassing silence. Or she's waiting for an orchestra to deliver its most breathtaking, final note of the performance, only for the violin players to drop their bows, the trumpeters to lift their fingers off the valves, the guitarists to stop picking at the steel strings, and the pianist to lift her foot from the pedal, thereby terminating the music before it even scrapes the climax. And the reason people listen—the motivation that the show goers have for dragging themselves to a show in the first place—becomes void with the ominous hush of the ensemble. 

They want that ethereal moment, where their stomachs flip and transcend the tangible world. But they don't reap their desire. Instead, they're left feeling empty and incomplete. 

It's true. Hermione feels wholly unsatisfied. She craves more and covets that final string of music to crash against her eardrum and launch her into bliss.

She feels eons apart from Draco, and he's only twenty feet away.

With a careful stare, Hermione watches as Titus reprimands Draco, lecturing him with verbose and heated sentences. With the music continuously blaring and casting its all-encompassing wings over the atmosphere of the club, Hermione is utterly incapable of deciphering anything they're discussing. She can, however, perceive Draco's facial expressions when the emerald lights from above gleam over his face; even for that ephemeral moment, Hermione steals a peek at his most authentic mien—his despondent, heartbreaking façade.

Her wand harbors the memory of the spells cast in the bathroom, and her hand is guilty of directing the sparks and fashioning the damage. Yet Draco is the one who procures the blame, the bystander who becomes the scapegoat.

"Granger, it's alright," Adrian says softly, carefully stroking her arm as a means of calming her nerves, nerves which she feels sprouting up her arm and settling in the space just below her skin. It's why she can feel everything so intensely in this moment—Adrian's hand, the lights, the fucking air. Her hair stands upright, and goosebumps form in patches on her sensitized skin. She knows these signs are testaments to how mortified she is with herself and how ashamed she feels about the truth of the matter—that she was incapable of maintaining her composure when Draco was taunting her, tempting her, seducing her. 

"Don't worry about Draco," Daphne says reassuringly, lifting loose pieces of Hermione's hair from her face and tucking them behind her ears. "Titus loves him like a son. He just wants what's best for us."

Hermione nods but nonetheless feels entirely guilty about the situation. Her eyes course over the sea of dancers in front of her, and then they're returning to Draco like they belong plastered on him anyway, like the world will always guide her irises wherever he is. She observes as Titus slows his frantic lecturing down, places his hand on Draco's shoulder, and slackens his anger. And Draco nods, but he doesn't turn to look at Hermione.

_Can't he feel her staring at him?_

"Maybe we should go," Blaise suggests, and Hermione immediately feels even more guilty about the fact that her outburst has spoiled the evening.

She jolts her head back to face the group. "I'm sorry," she says to them, shaking her head, wondering how on earth she could let Draco drive her this far.

There's a chorus of _it's not your fault, Granger_ , and _you have nothing to be sorry for, Granger_ , and _oh, Granger, it's not a big deal_ that comes from the group, but Hermione still harbors remorse.

Suddenly, his presence clouds her senses, and she's spinning on her heels to gaze at his face a little closer, seeing if those eyes still retain a sliver of accountability.

They do. They glimmer with a guilt-ridden sentiment, like silver knows it's more valuable than bronze yet still not as prized as gold. Like the moon knows that it controls the tides, yet many humans prefer the sun's beams; they favor the bright yellow luster it offers over the more glossy, leaden glow which the moon propounds.

"Malfoy, I'm—"

"I'm staying to help clean the mess. You all should just go back home."

Home. Hermione doesn't know whether she can make it back to London. Because to apparate there tonight and then back here in the morning for breakfast with Harry—

_Oh fuck. Oh, fucking hell. Oh, hell on earth. She has to meet Harry in several hours. How can she meet Harry in several hours when she's here, wearing a little black dress and heels in the middle of a club and is coming down from a cocaine rush?_

She suddenly becomes aware of an aching feeling in her body, as if just thinking about the drugs triggers something within her. It's subtle and delicate, but it's centered in her head, stamped like an expiration ticket that's ticking down the clock to her downfall, to the gloomy repercussion of the drugs.

Could be a placebo effect of some sort. Could be the drugs reawakening and begging for round two. 

Theo leans towards Draco. "Should one of us stay and help—"

"No," Draco snaps, but it's not as aggressive as other times. It's a lighter reply, laced with the awareness that it's not their mess to clean. "It's my fault, so I'll clean it. You all just go."

His jaw slackens when his eyes reach Hermione's again, and that's the only hint he yields to her before turning around and sauntering towards the infamous door of the lavatory.

_Is the cocaine still working?_ Because Hermione finds herself stepping forward and calling out to him, "Do you need my wand so that you can clean faster?"

Draco stops in his tracks and revolves slowly. To Hermione's surprise, he bends over and lifts the cuff of his black slacks to reveal his own wand, fastened to the side of his calf underneath the strap of a thin, small holster.

She doesn't know why it shocks her—the fact that he carries his wand with him. She wonders if he takes it everywhere he goes. Because it's there, tied to his ankle, practically embedded into his skin like the tattoos. 

"You're not the only one who feels safer with a wand on them at all times, Granger."

After delivering his cryptic message, he turns again and ambles to the bathroom, and Hermione considers the implications of Draco's affection to his wand.

She discerns that she and Draco must live in the same realm of the universe—one where they're constantly terrified of something reappearing, haunting them, threatening to destroy their lives. The threat is all too palpable for them because the largest menace the wizarding world had ever seen indisputably shaped their childhoods, their adolescence, and their teenage years. They were just kids. Yet the peril they endured—regardless of which 'side' they found themselves serving—yielded the same traumatic response.

The presence of their wands attached to their bodies is their only source of safety in an otherwise unpredictable world.

Maybe, in time, they could find a way to rely on other shields for protection.

-

Hermione doesn't know how she winds up on the floor of the bathroom of their apartment, leaning her flaccid limbs over an empty toilet, but it's where she finds herself a few hours later. Darkness still sheathes the sky with its gloomy hue, yet Hermione is wide awake. She's conscious and alert of a riotous hurricane generating in the pit of her stomach.

She's unacquainted with the aftereffects of drugs. Nausea shrouds her capacity to ruminate over the repercussions of snorting cocaine. Her queasy stomach is likely a result of two things—the drugs and the impassioned clash between her and Draco.

That's all she is capable of discerning at the moment, because she soon begins to feel the mesh of bad decisions swirl in her gut, and then she's on her knees and leaning over the aperture of the toilet, and she's sticking her head in the hole and gagging, but nothing comes out.

It's a painful affair, lurching forward and not emitting anything from the part of her body where the pain is centered. It's like her insides are playing tricks on her, teasing her—but not in the good, exciting way. Not in the soft touches of someone else's fingertips on her collarbone. This tease is merciless, and it's her own fucking body betraying her.

Unsuccessful is dispelling anything from her body, Hermione falls back on her behind, her hands gripping the edge of the basin to steady herself. Nothing is in her stomach, anyway. She's empty.

The porcelain bathtub to her left looks oh so comforting, so she shifts her weight and leans her back against the white ceramic tub. It tingles against her bare skin like ice sticking to her back, but it melts away in a moment as she sinks further into the durable surface. She leans her head back to stretch her neck out. Her eyes flap open, and she stares at the showerhead hovering a little to her right. She thinks about how welcoming a shower would be at the present moment.

_Don't wake them up_ , she reasons with herself.

Adrian had offered to let Hermione sleep in his bed while he took the couch for the night. But Hermione insisted that she sleep on the couch instead, using her obligation to get up rather early the next day for breakfast with Harry as a pretext.

She also couldn't bear to share a room with Draco. The embarrassment of that would've been too overwhelming to handle. 

Adrian had laughed at her, assuming that she was joking about meeting someone in the morning. But when Hermione tilted her head to the side, her innocent doe-eyes wondering why that premise was so amusing to him, Adrian swallowed his cackle and nodded, simultaneously reveling in Hermione's incorruptibility and naivety.

He'd given her a blanket, wished her the happiest dreams possible, and then went to bed.

She didn't dream—didn't even fall asleep.

And now she's in the bathroom. She must've stumbled here through the dark living room at some point during the evening. She just doesn't remember. Probably because of the exhaustion. 

"You okay, Granger?"

Hermione's eyes dart to her right. Adrian is already entering the bathroom, closing the door, and bending his knees in front of her before she discerns who it is kneeling in front of her. He leans his forearms against his thighs as he stoops down to reach her level, and when he tilts his head to the right, Hermione feels the storm within subside slightly, like she's inching closer and closer to the eye of the hurricane with every quintessential mannerism he exudes.

In response, she shakes her head slowly, cinching her eyes shut to avoid crying.

_That's not what she needs right now. She doesn't need to cry about this._

"No." The words fall quietly from her chapped lips, and she fiddles with her fingers in her lap.

She's still wearing the dress. She doesn't know why she didn't change out of it when Daphne offered her comfier clothes when they arrived back at the apartment. Something compelled her to remain in the dress—maybe it's the power she harbors when she wears it that has labeled it a comfort item. The thought of removing it seems too scary for Hermione, like the second it comes off she'll lose the ethereal feelings from her encounter with Draco a few hours prior.

She'll take it off for breakfast with Harry, but she wishes to linger in its energy for a little longer.

"Is it your head? Your stomach?"

"Both," she answers. "I just can't sleep."

Adrian sighs and swivels his body around so that his back is leaning against the tub as well, situating himself adjacent to Hermione.

Her eyes wander to glance at him. He wears his pajamas—that makes one of them—a grey t-shirt and black sweatpants. Inches away from her right arm is his exposed bicep, and it swells against the sleeve of his shirt as the perfect fit. His broad chest rises up and down as he inhales slowly, and then Hermione's eyes are traveling to his face, and she can see the bags under his eyes, the hollow dip of his cheekbones, and the neat lining of his eyelashes, long and silky and—quite frankly—unfair of him to hoard all for himself.

She peeks at the mark on his left arm.

It's red and swollen, but not as much as Pansy's was from a few weeks ago. There are no welts, no bumps, nothing to affirm that his mark is alive. It doesn't move an inch. She sighs in relief but remains wary of the possibilities.

"That would be the cocaine that's keeping you from sleeping," he answers, staring straight forward, his eyes plastered to the beige-colored wall.

Hermione becomes aware that she is gawking at his mark, so she quickly lifts her eyes to match his line of vision. Out of her peripheral, though, she sees him twist his head ever so slightly to gaze at her; she can feel the warmth of his eyes reheat her chilled skin.

"What comfortable pajamas you have on," he remarks cheekily.

She laughs, and an ounce of her pain dissipates at the joke. "Daphne offered me some clothes, but for some reason I just can't seem to take this dress off."

"I see that the confidence side-effect hasn't worn off just yet," Adrian comments with a smirk.

Hermione chuckles again. Another ounce of pain, gone. "It has, trust me."

Adrian heeds her sentiment, and slowly his smile turns into a frown. He scratches his thigh, as if he's trying to release the words itching in his throat through pining his restlessness on another part of his body.

"We shouldn't have pushed you to do that tonight."

Hermione's head jolts to meet his. His face, stoic and placid, and his lips, pursed and folded into one another, unveil the shame that he feels about the evening.

She shakes her head. "I chose to do engage. You all were very comforting and supportive."

He nods, but Hermione discerns a part of him that still feels guilty.

"It's just... things like this... the drugs that we do... it's all a social endeavor. They're not to be done alone, especially in an environment like that." He pauses and furrows his eyebrows, and Hermione waits for the rest of his sentence, gazing at him like she's trying to plant flowers in his skin, nurture a garden of daisies and sunflowers and poppies in his cheeks to bring him back to life.

"I never do them alone," he continues, nodding his head. "It's a social process. It's meant to be done with a support system. And that's what we've always told each other. 'We're one another's support system.' But sometimes—"

He falters for a moment, jabbing his tongue into his bottom lip. "I see Blaise and Daphne, and Theo and Pansy... And they each have someone special. They have a person that will be there for them when the drugs or alcohol hit a little too hard."

Hermione doesn't try to stop Adrian from permitting his innermost thoughts and contemplations to roam free in the air. Words and sentiments roll off of his tongue like a coursing river, collecting sticks and mud and plants in its treacherous journey downstream. Adrian says one thing and it leads to another as he collects the sticks and mud. He reflects and redirects and exposes his feelings.

Hermione just shuts up and listens to him.

It's an easy thing, listening. She used to have a lot of trouble with that—still does, sometimes. But with Adrian, silencing herself is simple. And it makes all the difference. If not her, then who would do this for him?

"I guess I just wanted to prove to myself that I could be that person for someone, too. Because taking care of Draco, is... is exhausting. And it feels like I'm failing at taking care of my person." He leans back further against the tub and sighs, rubbing his hand over his face and allowing his fingertips to drag down his skin with it. "He's my best friend. My brother. And I'm failing him."

Hermione shakes her head. "You're not failing him. You're not. Malfoy is his own person. And it's wonderful and very valiant of you to want to be there for him all the time. But you can't always take care of him. You can't always save him from himself."

"I know," he concedes. "I've seen him self-destruct. I've witnessed him hit rock bottom. And every single time, there's this voice in my head that says, 'You should've done more. You should've said something. You should've stopped him.'"

"That's a heavy burden to force on yourself, Adrian."

"Yeah. But he needs it."

"And what about you?"

Adrian doesn't respond, just stares at his lap. Studies his own fingers as they wrap around one another.

"You need someone, too," Hermione asserts.

"I'm alright," Adrian responds, feigning a smile but conspicuously pleading for help through his eyes, sunken and lost and puffy under the pressure of his self-ascribed responsibilities.

Hermione could cry.

Listening is so easy. Why won't anyone take the time to do it for them?

"Adrian—"

"Sheesh," he chuckles, and suddenly the color returns to his skin and he's laughing off his episode. "That was... way more information than you were probably pining for. Although I guess I did owe you some emotionally-charged conversation."

Hermione slopes her head in slight confusion.

"You did the drugs; I did the therapy session. You remember our promise, don't you?"

It's not a difficult memory to evoke; she remembers. _The day you take me up on some drugs is the day that I take you up on your advice about my situation. How does that sound, Granger?_

True to her character, Hermione feels compelled to press on with their conversation. She desires to help Adrian meander through his thoughts, his troubles, his very real and visceral fears about the drugs, his friends, his own life.

But she knows it's a slow process. She is sentient of the fact that the process is a slow one. It can't be rushed, coerced, or forced. It must come about organically and when they are ready.

If Adrian doesn't wish to speak any more about it tonight, she won't push him.

She lets his reflection linger in the air and seep into the oxygen, and she inhales it without question and stores it in her memories for another time, another moment such as this one where they can resume their conversation and become more understanding of one another.

"So, how do you like your new room?" Adrian asks, already vaulting to a fresh topic. He gestures to the rest of the bathroom with his hands stretched in front of him. "If you'd like, we can make some renovations, but I'm thinking that your closet could be up against that wall—" he points to the wall in front of them – "and your bed could be right behind us—" he shoots his thumb over his shoulder to the bathtub – "and you even have a lovely little chair right here—" he leans over Hermione and spanks the edge of the toilet with his hand – "where, oh, I don't know, you could read? Daydream? Oh and, of course—" he points to the sink next to the toilet – "that could be your kneazle's little bed—"

All the while, as Adrian is painting her a vivid picture of what her life could be like here, Hermione laughs her arse off. She has to fasten her hand over her mouth to mask the outpouring giggles because she desperately wants to avoid waking up the others. But, fuck's sake, Adrian is like a walking comedy show, and she has a front row seat.

But a thought haunts her—the thought that those who are the funniest are often also the saddest. Are fragmented in some way, desperate to channel their despondency into something more jovial and ecstatic as a way to convince themselves that they are alright.

She plays along with Adrian's redirection of the conversation, asking a question of her own. "Is Malfoy back yet?"

Adrian nods. "Got in half an hour after we did."

"And he's in bed?"

"Yeah, he's asleep."

"Lucky him."

Adrian leans his head towards Hermione and lowers his eyes, gazing at her with a cheeky grin. "Do you want to talk about what happened in the bathroom?"

Hermione purses her lips. _Fuck no_. "It's Malfoy," she says with a snort, "he pushed my buttons."

"Yeah, he's good at that."

Hermione recalls all the little words, insinuations, and suggestions that Adrian has dropped over the last few weeks about Draco. She wants to ask about them, but the bold levels in her body are short-circuiting. She's expended all the energy she can tonight. Trying to disentangle the enigma that is Draco Malfoy is not something she believes her brain can handle.

So, she asks a simple question: "Does he hate me?"

Adrian snorts and sighs loudly, lifting his arms like an eagle and wrapping them over the edge of the bathtub, his left arm lingering just behind Hermione's back. "Come on, Granger. Subtlety isn't something I'm particularly good at, and I do that on purpose."

It's half an answer. It affirms that Draco doesn't hate her.

But that makes the feeling neutral. Levels the playing field between them and nothing else.

Do his feelings tip the scale towards the other end, then?

"He's like... alright, check this out. I'm better with words than I am with metaphors, but I'm going to give this a shot to prove to you how smart I really am." Adrian clears his throat and lifts his right hand in front of him, flailing it around as he describes his metaphor. "That guy is like... a painting with a hidden meaning. He's got all these tattoos on his body like it's a fucking canvas, right? And you think you can just look at the tattoos and discern exactly who is he from them. Well, deep inside the frame—like, I'm talking _inside_ the frame, like hidden treasure shit—there's a clue. A clue that helps unlock the rest of who he is. Once you puncture—" he jabs his finger forward – "that hard exterior—the canvas, per my stunning metaphor—you stumble upon this beautiful secret. A box of surreptitious life goals and opinions and dreams. All of which make up who Draco Malfoy really is, not what the world forced him to be."

On a normal day, Hermione would be enamored with Adrian's metaphor. But her brain is so drained and spent that she can barely appreciate his comparison. She manages to croak an "I love that," before her eyes begin to flutter open and shut. 

Adrian notices this as Hermione yawns. "Yeah," he adds, "maybe a simpler metaphor is that he's like a piggy bank. You've just got to smash through the porcelain to get to the money."

Hermione smiles, but as fatigue creeps over her conscience, she finds her limbs morphing into jelly. She's suddenly having much more trouble keeping her eyes open.

"I'm supposed to meet Harry in a few hours for breakfast," she admits, and then she's yawning again and seconds away from succumbing to sleep, _finally_. Her head tips slightly, gravity coercing her to rest her head on Adrian's shoulder.

Adrian chuckles. "Yeah, okay. We'll see about that one, Granger."

She's asleep moments later with the hope that this time, she'll actually dream.

-

She wakes up on the couch swathed in a knitted blanket.

It's the sun that does it; it pours through the open blinds and into the living room, its rays sprouting like tendrils and suffocating the room with luminosity.

Hermione's always been one to wake up early, but today she just wants to sleep forever. Let this blanket envelop her in its warmth and drift away, floating on a stretch of the sun's rays.

Then, a headache kicks in. She shoots up from the couch and presses her hand to her temple, rubbing and praying for it to go away. Brought on by her lack of sleep, the sudden burst of light against her tired eyes, and the aftereffects of last night's endeavors, her headache starts in her frontal lobe and then seeps into every other part of her brain, like a dreary mist desiring to fill the vacuum of its container.

"Fuck," she groans, dropping her body back onto the couch and closing her eyes.

_She's supposed to meet Harry. She's supposed to meet Harry in—_

Her eyes shoot open and glance to her left, making contact with the television stand a few feet away, just past the other navy couch. There's a watch with a titanium band and black head resting atop the wood, and she can practically hear the little hands tick with every passing second.

Rolling over slightly, she reaches her hand to the floor and picks up her wand. She remembers tossing it off the couch last night after looking at it, wishing that it didn't harbor the history of the spells it had used.

She points it at the watch and sluggishly mutters, " _Accio_."

It zips through the air and lands on her lap. And when she looks at the time, her eyes widen.

10:42. Three minutes before she promised Harry that she'd meet him.

Profanities sputter in her brain as she jumps up from the couch, shoving the blanket off of her body and throwing it back down onto a couch cushion.

She becomes aware of her outfit—the dress.

She considers transfiguring it, but she doesn't want to lose the dress, doesn't want it to become a figment of the most anarchic and enjoyable night she's ever experienced. She wants to remember it, keep it tangible and close.

Turning and glancing at the blanket on the couch, she flicks her wand at the knitted throw, and it transfigures into a pair of jeans, a muted pink sweater, and a pair of sneakers. She grabs the jeans and tugs them over her legs, notching the bronze button through its hole. And then she's hoisting the dress off of her chest, and suddenly she's standing in the living room, bare-chested, no bra, totally vulnerable and susceptible to anything or anyone.

She darts for the sweater and hastily throws it over her head. Her arms frantically search for the sleeves and eventually slide into them, not without some difficulty. She tugs the hem of the sweater down to rest just above the waistline of her jeans. Finally, she slips on her shoes and checks the time again.

10:44.

_Fucking hell, she's never late, she's never—_

"Hermione?" a soft voice comes from behind her.

She spins around and sees Daphne leaning out of her door, her eyes half-closed like flowers just before they bloom. Beneath those eyes, though, are purple bags that tow her face down. And her hair is thrown up in a messy bun, some straight tendrils falling in the front and back in flits of gold sunshine against her porcelain skin. Hermione can see that she's wearing a large shirt with no pants, and her little legs quiver ever so slightly in the unfiltered air.

"Where are you going?" she whispers.

"I promised to meet Harry for some breakfast," Hermione responds with a trace of guilt, as if she's abandoning them.

"Will you come back?" Daphne asks, her voice like honey even after she's just woken up.

Hermione inhales through her nose, considering Daphne's question. A part of her dreads staying because of what happened with Draco—the way she acted, the things she could've done, and the implications of the things she _did_ do. But another part of her already feels welcome in this homey apartment, surrounded by an unlikely group of friends.

"It's Christmas Eve. You should be with friends tonight," Daphne continues.

The days are like shooting stars for Hermione, flowing by without stopping, slipping through her fingers in the way only light can. She'd overlooked the date, forgotten the importance of the holiday in general. Melancholy grips her mind with the memories of Christmas Eve with her family, her mother and father driving her to create holiday-themed images in the pristine blanket of white powder in her front yard. She'd toil over making homemade hot chocolate with them because her little legs could barely lift her high enough to peer into the saucepan of melted chocolate. And then there was the feeling of excitement in bed as her parents would kiss her on each cheek, promising presents and mince pies and Christmas crackers the next day.

Her Christmas Eves had been much more solemn since she'd obliviated them. They don't need to know what has become of their daughter.

"I will come back," Hermione assures Daphne. "I'll just be gone a few hours."

A small smile creeps on Daphne's lean face. "Good. Just, you know, shoot up some sparks when you come back. Or send your Patronus. I'll come grab you."

Hermione nods and smiles. "Thanks, Daphne."

"Enjoy your breakfast," she mutters, and then Hermione is making her way to the front door and lugging her tweed jacket over her back and her arms. She gives Daphne one last smile before exiting the apartment and closing the door as quietly as possible.

Daphne is about to close her door as well when one across the apartment creaks open.

Draco sticks his head out the door, his hair messy and his eyes almost fused together with exhaustion.

"Where did she go?" Draco asks quietly, his voice hoarse with the dawning of his morning.

Daphne smiles sweetly at Draco. "She's meeting Potter for breakfast."

The name stirs a sour taste in his mouth, but he represses his feelings towards Potter—feelings he isn't sure why he harbors in the first place—and asks a question he is dying to know the answer to: "Is she coming back?"

Daphne smiles and raises her eyebrows at Draco, reading him like a picture book. "Yes. Don't worry. She's coming back."

-

The walk to the bakery is quicker than Hermione thought it would be. It's relatively near where the Slytherins live, just a little further inside the town of Hogsmeade, back in the family-friendly stretch of the area. She passes through crowds of families and children skipping around, snacking on their treats from Honeydukes—treats they probably are only allowed to have on Christmas Eve morning as a way for their parents to coerce them to relax for just a moment.

Hermione wonders why the parents would give their children more sugar if their goal is to calm them down. All that does is enable them, give them a reason to be more agitated and hyper.

_Fuck. The irony. The fucking irony of that._

She reaches the bakery a few minutes after she'd promised Harry to meet him. Peering through the window at the row of tables set on the left side of the bakery, arranged opposite to the stand of pastries to the right, she sees him sitting three tables in, a spitting image of the boy she remembers meeting on the Hogwarts Express. He has those same glasses nestled on top of his nose like they were sculpted for his face. His brown hair rests on the crown of his head, falling in simple strands upon his forehead. And he sips his tea delicately, tracing his fingers over a copy of the Daily Prophet in front of him, noticeably deep in his reading.

Hermione catches sight of two pastries and another teacup already on the table in front of him.

She spots a cinnamon roll. Her favorite.

She wonders if he remembers the way she likes her tea.

Sidestepping towards the door and driving it open, Hermione steps inside the bakery and nods at the employee behind the till. A little bell dings above her head, causing Harry to look excitedly at the door.

The moment he sees her, he jumps from his seat, and his knee slams against the bottom of the table, causing it to shake slightly. He simultaneously garners the attention of several other breakfast goers. Gripping the circumference of the round table, he steadies the leg in the middle and apologizes briskly to the person on his left, who had jumped and almost spilled their tea when he heard the sound of Harry leaping out of his chair.

Hermione practically springs into his arms from ten feet away. She doesn't know whether the pounding in her head illustrates the morning after effect of her fall from bliss late last night, or whether it's just because she's so bloody happy to see Harry. Either way, she embraces the pain for the moment and somehow lets it drive her spirit into Harry's arms.

"Blimey, Hermione! Several months away from you has been far too long," Harry exclaims.

She pulls away, her smile practically yanking her face apart. "I couldn't agree more!"

He laughs nervously, that little exhale he emits when he's so overwhelmed with so much joy that he doesn't know how to show it. He gestures towards the table, and Hermione walks over and slides between the bench fixed into the wall and the white marble table. Already salivating at the cinnamon roll sitting right in front of her, Hermione glances up at Harry and waits for him to sit so that she can sink her teeth in the warm, gooey pastry.

"Got that just for you," Harry says, pointing at the treat with a smile. "Although I don't know if it will top the rolls at Hogwarts. Remember those?"

"How could I forget?" Hermione responds, and she smiles brightly at the memories of breakfast in the Great Hall with her friends—Ron chowing down on his savory English breakfast, Harry settling for a smaller version of the full breakfast, and Hermione opting for the sweeter options like pastries and pies.

"They still serve them, you know. Occasionally I'll have one and think of you."

Her heart flutters. "Merlin, Harry, I've missed you."

"I've missed you too, 'Mione."

She takes a sip of her tea—milk and honey. Just how she likes it. He hadn't forgotten.

"How are things going with the program?" Harry asks, and Hermione is reminded of his desire to jump into business whenever possible. Ron was often a distraction for him—not that Ron was wrong for doing that, but it did deter from Harry's intrinsic personality—that being his habit of cutting right to the point of things.

And when he asks the question, Hermione is shocked to not hear an intone of sarcasm or disdain coupled with the inquiry. It reverberates like a genuine question, as if Harry can already sense just how important they are to her.

"It's alright," Hermione responds, nodding and taking a sip of the tea. "I'm actually joining the group for the holiday tonight, which will be rather nice."

"You've gotten rather close with them, then?"

"I think the program has brought us together in a deeper way than I thought possible."

Harry nods, listening intently, heeding her words.

Appreciative doesn't even begin to describe how she feels towards him for simply being present in their conversation. Respecting her thoughts and beliefs. He sits across from her, and his qualms and suspicions about the Slytherins dissipate. He nods his head, retains eye contact with her, and simply listens to the things she has to share. It's refreshing, to say the least, to have someone heed her words.

Because she feels like she's drowning every time she addresses Aberfield or Bruiser, asks them a question, or attempts to share her opinion or belief about something. And with a plethora of affairs piling upon Kingsley's plate, it's as if he's completely wrapped up and busy with all those other matters, placing the program on an insignificant level in comparison with his other business affairs.

But the program is not insignificant. It's life and death for the six of them.

"What about the things you were telling me? About your boss? Is he still treating them poorly?"

Hermione sighs. With all the time in the world, she could spew countless negative things about Aberfield—let the insults burst out of her mouth like fiendfyre... like a dragon.

But she's on a schedule. The tantamount rant will have to wait.

"He's awful, Harry," Hermione admits, reaching for her cinnamon roll and picking off a little chunk of the top, specifically a piece doused with the white icing. She lifts it to her tongue and chews on the pastry between her teeth, and the heat of her mouth from the anger boiling inside of her melts the dough, the cinnamon, and the icing into a sugary delight. "You remember what I told you? About Aberfield's magic? His 'Location Beams,' and the Draught of Peace he's brewing?"

Harry nods. "Yes. I suspect you have suspicions about those things?"

"I think they've got to be connected somehow."

"Connected?" he asks, taking a sip of his tea.

Hermione nods. "I've thought about it. There's something very strange about that magic. I don't know how to describe it, but it's incredibly unnerving."

"Those wheels in your head never stop turning, do they?"

Hermione shakes her head with a smile. "No. Never."

"Well, what do you think is happening?"

Hermione sighs, and it's the kind of sigh that she always emits right before she goes off on a tangent. Her upper lip crooks, her eyebrows furrow, and her nose scrunches, all in anticipation of the outburst she is about to undergo.

"For one, the placement of their Location Beams is suspicious. He's injected them right above their Dark Marks. I don't know if he's done it as a mechanism to force them to face their choices, because he certainly talks about that all the time. He's always nagging them about their past, their mistakes, the way they've destroyed their bodies with drugs. And so every time they think about the fact that they are being tracked, they are forced to look at their marks. I don't know how often he sifts through the memories—or whether he looks at all, but it's all very sadistic. I just can't place why he'd want to track them. Why he thinks that's a good way to get them to listen."

"Wow, that's—"

"And then there's the Draught of Peace," Hermione interrupts, her brain spinning like a water wheel, filtering and sorting the water as if each particle holds a point that she wants to relay to Harry. "Something is telling me that the potion isn't exactly what he's been saying it is. When I offered to brew it with him, he feverishly declined, offering me some bullshit response about him not wanting to bother me with such trivial things. But the odd thing is that I've been in his office; I've seen his ingredients. They're on display. Everything checks out. There's nothing special or out of place. I don't know how he could possibly be triggering their marks—"

Harry's eyes widen at Hermione's words. "Their marks?"

She nods. "Pansy came to me a few weeks ago complaining about her mark. And she showed me. And it was... terrible. Her skin was swelling, welting, blistering..."

"Merlin," Harry mutters.

"I'm just... Harry... I just don't know what to do."

Harry reaches his hand across the table to grip Hermione's, and his warm touch eases her pain for a moment. She thinks about the night in the tent where he drew her to dance with him. The rattling of the song over the radio and the unsteady yet quintessential off-beat dancing changed her that night. She wishes for nothing more than to feel that again—the power of a dance, a hand, a cheek pressed against hers, soothing her anxiety and fears.

"Pansy came to you?" he clarifies. "She trusted you enough to approach you personally?"

Hermione nods. "It seems that way."

Harry nods and bites his lower lip. "How can I help?"

Hermione smiles in relief and squeezes Harry's hand a little tighter. His willingness to help her eclipses all her other distresses. With Harry on her side, maybe she can finally convince Kingsley of the malpractice occurring at the Ministry, all happening right under his nose. "Would you be willing to do some research for me?"

Harry groans sarcastically and rolls his eyes, but in a moment he's back to a sweet smile. "Of course. What about?"

"I need information about spell creation, dark magic, anything in that realm."

"You want me to make an infamous trip to the Restricted Section, I presume?"

Hermione giggles at the comment, more memories floating into her mind. "Yes. I'm sure this time around, with you as a Professor, it will be much easier to do so."

"Oh, considerably," Harry comments with a cheeky smile.

"I just need some more information about spell creation. What it entails, how it affects the witch or wizard who creates the spell—just, anything at all. Maybe the Restricted Section will have some information about that, particularly information about dark magic."

"It certainly could. It's worth a shot looking."

When Hermione inhales through her nose to breathe in the aura of the moment, she can't help but close her eyes revel in the smell of this bakery. Rejoice in the perception of a listening ear. With Harry on her side, she could hopefully convince the Ministry of the misconduct and countless transgressions spawned by their very employees.

"What did I do to deserve you, Harry?"

"It's the other way around, Hermione," Harry says. "What did the world do to deserve someone like you?"


	17. Chapter 17

"You're back."

Even with a coat and sweater swathing her tepid body, Hermione can still feel miniscule stones configure on her arms at the resonance of Draco's voice. It's like satin, the sound scooping underneath the fabric and brushing against her skin like a soft breeze.

Hermione suddenly feels guilty about the memory she used to summon her Patronus so that Daphne could retrieve her from outside their apartment building.

Punching Draco. Third year. Right in his nose.

She doesn't know why it brought her so much joy—enough merriness to invoke her Patronus, anyway. She considers that it is because she has an immense amount of trouble pinning Draco down. But on that day, all of her frustration centered itself in her little fist; the moment it collided with his porcelain face, splitting open the skin on the bridge of his nose and drawing drops of crimson blood, Hermione actually felt a moment of euphoria. A moment of clearness, like the sun had pierced through the cloudy skies and shone right on her, bestowing power within her like no other earthly force had ever done. An ephemeral moment, undoubtedly. But it charmed her agitated state that day and created a moment of total bliss and power.

He'd been scared of her. A recent phenomenon, too.

And today, her Patronus was wholly acceptive of the memory; Hermione swore her little, luminescent otter giggled at the memory as it swam through the air and seeped into the window of their apartment.

Moments later, Daphne had apparated down and answered the front door. Now, Hermione finds herself back in their snug and homey apartment.

"You're back." The words emerge from the space to her left. She glances over to the origin of the soft remark to see Draco standing in the kitchen. Separated from the living room by a wall with an aperture in the middle, like a window to the happenings of the apartment, the kitchen is small and cozy yet stocked with random assortments of food, drinks, and treats. With his back turned to the stove and consequently facing the inside of the apartment, Draco pours hot water from a kettle into a white teapot, decorated with red and yellow florets.

Hermione studies his appearance carefully. It is entirely changed from last night. Draco looks unquestionably exhausted with purple bags dragging down his eyes, gaunt cheeks, and an eerily pale disposition. Were it not for his stunning black tattoos poking out from below his long-sleeve shirt, Hermione would swear that she is staring at a ghost. And with his quivering fingers and faintly chattering teeth, Draco looks like the midmorning is suffocating him. One more piercing glare from the relentless sun's rays and he'd fall victim to his phantasmic façade.

She's seen it in the others—Daphne, in particular—but witnessing Draco's body undergo a period of withdrawal is haunting, humbling, and interestingly purifying, as if the man she toyed with last night is hidden somewhere beneath this walking apparition. To pull him out would be a challenge. This shell stirs trepidation in Hermione because it's a side to him that she hates seeing. He looks like he did during sixth year—emaciated, tired, and withered.

_Why hasn't he taken his drugs today? What's different?_

"Yes," Hermione finally responds, nodding her head and removing her tweed coat from her body. She hangs it on one of the hooks to her left and adjusts the hem of her sweater, pulling it down to cover any showing skin. It's a compulsory move above all else.

Draco watches her with his weak eyes; the silver augment tries to pierce her skin, but something about the color is duller today, like it's undergone far too much pressure and stress.

Like it knows it will never outshine gold, no matter how hard it begs for the same luster.

"How are you feeling?" he asks with a cracked voice, turning around and placing the kettle back onto the stove.

"I'm alright."

"That's... good."

There's a tension between them, but not like the other times. This strain in the air is characterized by the stale remnants of the night before, the ever-awkward scraps of the moment they created in the bathroom. They look at one another, not with rage, but with magnetic intrigue. To break eye contact would send them both into a tempest of abandonment.

Always there to relieve the heavy air conglomerating between the two, Adrian pokes his head around the arm of the couch adjacent to the television stand. He's lying on his back with his legs stretched on the couch before him and feet propped on Blaise's lap, who tinkers with his wand, casting insignificant charms into the air for fun.

"Hey, Granger! You're back!" Adrian cheers as he gazes at Hermione through his peripheral. He shuts his book and places it gently on the floor next to the couch. Swinging his legs off of Blaise and sitting upright, he points his index finger to the left corner of the apartment at the juncture between the wall shared with the outside and the wall shared with Blaise and Daphne's bedroom. "So... what do you think of our Christmas tree?"

Hermione's eyes follow the path of his finger to the corner. Nestled in the spot is a fir tree, decked with green and red ornaments, white fairy lights which coil around the circumference of the tree, and strands of silver tinsel weaving throughout the branches.

It all suddenly becomes very real to Hermione—she's spending Christmas with them. Adrian, Daphne, Blaise, Theo, Pansy, and Draco. Of all people. She's celebrating this special holiday with a new group of friends, but more importantly, with people she's grown to trust. Stemming from the way they protected her last night, the trust Hermione feels comes even closer to light as she grasps the reality of the circumstances.

She smiles at the physical sight of the tree, but her joyous expression grows even larger at the camaraderie they've shown her.

"It's lovely," she comments, stepping forward to acquire a closer view of the tree. As Hermione inches closer and closer to the physical representation of her delight, Daphne trickles around the room and skips to join Blaise on the couch. She drops into the vacant spot next to him and curls up into his side like a puzzle piece fitting into place. She nestles her head into his shoulder, and Blaise places a kiss on the top of her head, tasting the sunshine that colonizes the strands of her golden hair.

"Pansy and Theo went out and got it this morning," Adrian explains, standing and turning to lean over the couch to retrieve something from the television stand behind him. He picks up a star-shaped tree topper with a solid gold and radiant hue. Crossing the room and joining Hermione on her right side, Adrian clears his throat and holds the star out to her. "Want to do the finishing touch?"

Behind them, Pansy and Theo emerge from their room, giggling and poking one another with their teasing digits. Their eyes shoot up and illuminate when they see Hermione.

"You're back!" Theo exclaims, rotating his arms at his elbows to the side. "We waited for you to put the star up."

"That's... really kind of you all," Hermione sighs. She looks down at the star in her hand, and her fingers begin to trace the outline of the shape. She pricks the tip of her index finger against each point of the star as if to channel its luminosity and admit it full access to smother her apprehensions about the situation.

Approaching the tree, Hermione lifts onto her toes and stretches her right arm up to try and secure the tree topper on the peak of the vertical branch. Her feet don't seem to lift her high enough, though. She rests back on her heels and chuckles, slightly embarrassed but intent to try again. Back on her toes in a moment, she reaches, stretches, distends her arm as far as it will go. But she just can't seem to—

Suddenly, a small step ladder appears on the floor to her left out of an array of crimson sparks.

Hermione follows the path of the sparks behind her and looks through the aperture of the wall to find Draco, clandestinely slipping his wand back into the pocket of his pants.

"Thanks," she says, nodding her head and offering a timid smile. He nods back, his jaw contracting and tightening several times as he fights back a content mien.

"Oh, Malfoy, you can do better than that for Granger," Adrian teases.

Hermione turns back to face Adrian, noticing the cheeky grin on his face. "No, the ladder's great," she insists, subsequently positioning her feet in front of the steps to begin her ascension.

Two things happen rather suddenly. First, the ladder disappears before she can take her first step. Vanishes into thin air like it never existed in the first place. And before Hermione can scold the impetuous blonde behind her, she suddenly feels someone's hand—an all too familiar grip, soft and warm and sensual—wrap around hers as it steadies the tree topper in her grip.

She smells him behind her. He emits fresh mint, so much so that the natural odor of the tree is totally masked by his overwhelmingly addictive smell. Her brain runs in circles, replaying all the moments they'd been in this exact position before.

But this instant is different. The other moments were driven by lust and hunger, propelled by the game they'd so enjoyed playing with one another. This moment, however, harbors a sentimental touch. It's a breath of fresh air, one that supplies an answer to Hermione's uncertainty about how Draco truly feels about her.

_He doesn't hate her. He doesn't. He can't._

"Much better," Adrian mutters under his breath, sitting on the edge of the back of the couch and taking in the sight with crossed arms and a smug expression.

With his left hand placed delicately on her lower back and his right hand cupped around hers, Draco guides Hermione's arm up to the top of the tree. Hermione's breath lodges in her throat in the syrupy moment, syringed with sugar and honey and injected through their point of contact. And Draco's presence somehow elongates her stance and reach; with her fingers curling around the coiled, copper base of the tree topper, and with one final tug from Draco's hand, Hermione secures the star on the top of the tree. It slopes a few inches to the right, but Draco assumes the responsibility and tips the star over to center it.

They lower their hands, and Draco takes a step back. She delicately turns to face him.

"Looks great," he comments, his eyes glistening in a moment of pureness.

His fingertips linger on her skin like snow on a tree—inevitable that it melts away but comforting and lovely while it remains.

"Care to help us with some other decorations, Hermione?" Blaise asks.

Like a forbidden word has just been uttered, the group immediately turns to face Blaise. The look of surprise on his face is unquestionable. With his lips hanging a few inches apart and his eyes glistening with the breakdown of a barrier, his expression reads tenderly shocked.

He stumbles over his words. "Just, uh, you know... We have a few more things to hang and... we can use magic, if that is agreeable—" Blaise clears his throat. "Just a few decorations here and there."

"You lot are dropping like flies, aren't you?" Adrian teases with a smirk. "Not me, though. I'm a strong boy. I can hold out for a long time if I need to. In more ways than one, I might add."

"Here we go again," Theo mutters, plopping onto the couch in front of Adrian and rolling his eyes with a grin.

"What?" Adrian asks, leaning over and punching Theo's shoulder lightly. "I'm lonely! I need a companion! And Malfoy is being a git about accepting my offers. I've told him multiple times that it'd be convenient for us to just suck it up and French a little—"

"Piss off, mate," Draco groans with an elated smile, shoving Adrian's back playfully. Adrian snorts and runs his tongue across his teeth, reveling in the moment before Draco grabs a pillow with his left hand and slams it across the side of Adrian's face.

Adrian dramatically flails and flips Draco off with nothing but love. "Sheesh! I'm only joking, mate. I know you've got your own agenda that just doesn't involve me. I envy the person he fancies. A lucky witch that one is, to have Draco Malfoy's ever-loving enamor and fondness—"

"Anyway!" Pansy interjects, lifting her arms to cease the conversation. "Let's finish decorating and then get going, yeah? We're supposed to meet Titus for holidays drinks and sweets soon."

Hermione's face immediately tenses at the name.

_She just destroyed his fucking bathroom last night, how the hell is she supposed to—_

"Granger? You okay? You look like you've just seen a bloody dementor," Theo says, his body twisted to lean his arm over the edge of the couch. He drops his chin onto his forearm and gazes at Hermione with frank concern.

"Oh, I'm fine," Hermione lies through her teeth, shaking her head to cast away the troubling thought. She smiles as a further sign of reassurance. "I'm more than happy to help with some other decorations."

"Excellent!" Adrian cheers.

The six rise and disperse throughout the apartment, commencing the beginning of their decorating. They begin to apply several adornments to the otherwise plain apartment.

Daphne approaches the wall connected to her bedroom, and with her wand she calls forth laurel wreaths to hang in three-foot wide intervals.

Hermione is drawn to them. She approaches Daphne and watches as the wreaths blossom and grow upon the walls.

"Would the laurel wreaths have anything to do with Daphne from Greek mythology?" Hermione asks as Daphne conjures her third wreath.

"Mhm," Daphne answers through her curved, pursed lips. "A bit of a fucked-up anecdote, if you ask me. But I like to think I was named after her. It's why I'm quite drawn to these types of wreaths." She glances back at the others as they continue adorning the interior. "We all get to have a little trinket for the holidays represented somewhere in the apartment that signifies what we love. This one's mine."

"Well, they're beautiful," Hermione says, and she watches as little golden ribbons slip out of Daphne's wand and coil their way through the leaves, giving the wreaths a splash of effervescent color. Symbols of victory yet remnants of the river nymph's troubled episode with Apollo, the laurel wreaths which Daphne hangs upon the walls plant a question in Hermione's mind about who Daphne is and how she wishes to see herself. She hopes one day to find out.

Hermione spins around and watches the others add their own personal touches to the apartment. Adrian transfigures the hue of the throw pillows to match the season—red and green, some with patterns like snowflakes and reindeer, others with geometric designs.

Blaise summons several wax candles from thin air and guides them to the television stand. Once he nestles them into low candle holders, he lights them with the flick of his wand, letting the smell waft through the apartment. Hermione inhales a lovely, pine aroma, and wonders whether it is the smell of the candles or simply the presence of the candles which shapes Blaise's appreciation of the holiday.

Pansy and Theo work together to create a masterpiece, a mirage of wonder and beauty in their very apartment. They generate a small, white cloud that hovers above the Christmas tree, and from the vapor falls tiny flakes of snow. Most of the snowflakes settle on the thin prickles of the tree, but those that miss continue to descend to the floor in an ethereal and gentle manner. Just before the flurries hit the ground, they vanish into thin air, leaving the floor unscathed by the snow, the tree glistening with authentic snowflakes, and Hermione in awe at their lovely charm.

Hermione treads carefully as she turns around and watches Draco in the kitchen. He takes a sip of his tea from his maroon mug and simultaneously waves his wand in the air, pointing the hawthorn at the ledge of the aperture. A cookie jar shaped like the skull of Jack Skellington wearing a red and white Santa hat appears on the ridge of the opening. Upon witnessing Draco's upper lip curl in satisfaction, Hermione too feels a smile and the pink tint of reverence encroach upon her face.

"Draco's favorite," Adrian sings with a smirk.

"Yes," Draco responds, not looking up from his tea. He raises his eyebrows as he sips the liquid, steam rising from the mug and evaporating near his face. "And it's all I ever ask for during this holiday, so let me bloody have it."

"Will you stock it up with some of your lovely mince pies, Draco?" Daphne asks sweetly. She jumps towards Hermione and leans in with a smile. "Draco makes the best mince pies."

"Really?" Hermione asks, reverting her line of vision back to Draco. "I love mince pies."

"Mother's recipe," Draco adds with a hint of despondency, and Hermione realizes that there might be another level to Draco she will be tasked with unlocking. "I have many talents."

"Mhm," Adrian moans melodically. "He's a miracle worker with those nimble fingers and strong hands—"

The group snorts at Adrian's description, as if the moments of teasing at Draco's expense never cease to make them feel just a little bit happier.

"Right—on that note—we should leave to meet Titus," Blaise says, the remnants of his laughter still coating his lush lips.

"Amortentia during the day is so uncanny," Daphne says to Hermione. "But we always spend the holidays there with Titus. It's become tradition for us."

"He seems like a wonderful figure for you all to have," Hermione comments.

"He is," Daphne responds, nodding her head. "He really is. He's the one who owns this building, actually. He lets us stay here for free—bless his heart for being so understanding and kind."

As the others swarm towards the door, tugging their coats from the hooks and slipping the sleeves through their arms, Hermione suddenly feels a pang of nervousness settle in her stomach. She hesitates stepping forward, afraid of facing Titus after destroying his bathroom.

"Daphne," Hermione whispers, "I feel really poorly about last night. Do you think it's the best idea if I come with you?"

"Oh, don't worry about that, Hermione," Daphne says reassuringly. "Titus is harmless, really. And he adores Draco, so he'd never be cruel to you—"

She catches herself and smiles meekly. Another insinuation.

"Just, don't worry about it," she adds quickly, cinching her nose and nodding her head.

"You two songbirds finished gossiping?" Adrian asks, gliding his arms through the sleeves of his wool coat and tugging the collar over his neck.

Daphne tuts at him. "Yes, yes, we're coming!"

As they pile out of the apartment and Daphne's hand squeezes around Hermione's, she feels excitement stir in her heart and conquer her fear. The symbolism of the laurel wreaths which Daphne so lovingly admires travels from her body to Hermione's, invigorating her spirit and driving her to another victory—this time over her own harbored qualms and uncertainties.

-

"Helloooo? Titus? Your children are here!"

As the group patters down the infamous staircase of Amortentia and are greeted by the large steel door, Adrian heaves the door wide open and gestures the group to enter before him. One by one, each person files through the opening and steps into the venue.

Hermione is shocked by the sight. Accustomed to seeing the club in full swing in the peak of the night, she is amazed at the transformation of the scene. It is bright and airy in the club, not stuffy and crowded like the nights when she danced. The main lights in the ceiling blare down into the vacant room, allowing Hermione to truly take in the interior of the club—the magenta loveseats, the mirrors, the bar, the stage, and the dimmed signs lining the walls.

The dance floor that trembles and quakes under the mesh of the pounding of the bass and the feet of the clubgoers is perfectly tranquil, like an unperturbed body of water just moments before a pebble skips over its surface. As Hermione steps down from the platform with the help of Blaise's hand, she feels the ripple effect of her feet as they contact the floor, as if it reawakens with the touch of her foot, and as if each breath she took in this club seeps back into her brain the further she enters and retraces her steps.

Her eyes fall upon the center of the dance floor, where Titus stands between two circular tables. Drapes of purple cloth topped with drinks and treats cover the tables and fall majestically to the floor. She sees cookies, pies, and pastries painted in Christmas colors and designs; her mouth waters at the sight.

"Titus," Theo calls out, his arms stretched to the side as he prances towards the club-owner, "You shouldn't have!"

"Yeah, yeah," Titus responds as if he's heard the joke a million times before, waving his hand sarcastically towards him with a bright smile. "Come on over, you lot. I've got plenty of treats and drinks and—woah! Adrian! One at a time, yeah?"

Archetypally, Adrian compiles several cookies in his hand, iced with red frosting and speckled in white sprinkles. He stuffs one into his mouth and fixes it between his teeth, letting half of the cookie hang in the air and the other half in his mouth. He looks at Titus with doe eyes, blinking rapidly like an impatient puppy.

Titus lifts his lips into an envisaged grin. "Right, I shouldn't have even bothered," he concedes. "Salazar knows that you'd stuff your face with these for the rest of your life if you could."

Addressing Titus with the cookie crumbling in his mouth, Adrian delivers an incoherent response that sounds something like, "You know I can't resist your cookies, Titus!"

"Well, I've also got my hot-buttered rum to help—"

"Oh, fuck yes!" Theo shouts, shooting his hand towards the batch of clear mugs filled to the brim with caramel-tinted liquid and topped with whipped cream. He wraps his fingers around the handle and lifts the mug to his mouth, sipping the drink with elation. When he lowers the mug, he's left with a trail of whipped cream painted above his upper lip.

Pansy giggles and leans over, kissing Theo around his lips and sucking the whipped cream off of his mouth. Her tongue dances across his skin and over his lips, and he returns the playful act with his own staggered kisses. Pansy ends the sensual moment with a loud pucker, stroking her fingers against his cheeks and winking at him.

"You kids are just as raunchy in broad daylight than you are in the late hours of the night, aren't you?" Titus groans.

"Are you really still surprised?" Pansy retorts with a smirk, and Titus lifts his hands in submission.

"I suppose not."

Hermione deduces that the interactions between the group and Titus are built on trust and protection. He supplies them with treats, drinks, a home, a place to enjoy their nights, and an overall caring and attentive attitude. With a lack of mentor figures, it makes sense that the group would levitate towards the man who provides them with shelter and love. The relationship they share is decipherable—Titus _truly_ cares about them.

"So, how's that program of yours going, then?" Titus asks, lifting a cookie to his mouth and chomping down on the treat.

"Shit. Haven't you read about it in the papers?" Blaise asks.

"You know I don't waste my time with the fucking paper," Titus says. "Can't stand those bloody tabloids. Never have, never will."

"Ms. Granger here is keeping us company over the holidays," Adrian adds, pointing towards Hermione who stands awkwardly behind Draco.

Titus glances at Hermione and eyes her up and down.

She swears she sees Draco step slightly to his right, shielding Hermione just a little bit more from Titus' eyesight.

"Ah," he says with a warm and cheeky smile, wagging his finger midair at her, "You're the little hell-raiser from last night."

Hermione's cheeks flush with utter embarrassment. "I'm really sorry about that—"

Raising his hand in the air almost immediately, Titus silences Hermione. She fears the worst, feeling grateful that Draco has generated a sort of barrier between them. She'd cling to his arm if she could, but the sight of that would undoubtedly startle everyone in sight.

Titus, however, responds with tolerance. "No apologies necessary, Ms. Granger. It's spotless now thanks to _this_ instigator."

"Yeah, yeah," Draco mumbles, crossing his arms over his chest.

Hermione finds herself staring at the back of Draco's neck as he once again takes the responsibility. She studies the way his neck muscles contort in and out, like the ebb of waves cooperating with the stable and unbroken pull of the tides. His body, even when it is tired, is stunning, sculpted like marble and deserving of a pedestal.

"And you're the one helping with this program, yes?" Titus clarifies.

Hermione nods, fucking hating herself for it, wishing she wasn't contributing to this sorry excuse for a rehab initiative.

Surprisingly, Titus extends his arm to Hermione and smiles softly. "Walk with me for a moment, Ms. Granger?"

"And just where do you think you're taking our girl?" Theo asks with a raised eyebrow.

"Just for a tour and a conversation, yeah? Do I have your permission?"

"You do, but she better come back in one piece, or we all revolt. You hear?" Adrian jokingly teases. "We're not afraid to pull a Louis XVI on you. _Vive la France_ , Titus! _Vive les serpents_!"

Titus scoffs and rolls his eyes at Adrian's antics and pitiful French accent.

"Yeah, you think the damage to the bathroom was appalling? I can promise you that we'll do worse if she doesn't come back in one piece!" Blaise adds with a laugh.

Titus turns to Draco with an anticipatory grin. "Anything you'd like to add, Mr. Malfoy?"

Draco clears his throat. "It's not our threats you should be worried about, Titus. She's fully capable of taking you out the second she smells trouble."

Hermione purses her lips as Draco's face turns slightly to glance at hers. His eyes find hers from his peripheral, and as quickly as he locates them, he looks away.

"The dramatics on all of you," Titus groans. "Come for a tour, Ms. Granger?"

"Of course," she responds as she steps out from behind Draco. Titus offers his arm again, which Hermione graciously latches onto. Several inches taller than her and with a lean build, Titus gracefully guides her across the dance floor towards the wall where the infamous bathroom lies. She fears that he'll take her back to that spot to, _oh, she doesn't know, finish cleaning the mess she made last night?_

Instead, he continues to lead her down a hallway following the path of the wall to her left. Several feet down, they arrive at a door etched into the the same wall as the bathroom. Titus gestures for her to enter, and she does.

His office is small and clean. In the center rests a desk with stacks of loose papers and memos. The walls are covered in photographs with clients and memories from what appear to be vacation spots around the world. Hermione studies the pictures intently, glancing at the faces and places with fascination.

Leaving the door wide open, Titus sweeps behind Hermione and settles into a chair behind his desk. He lowers himself with a sigh and taps his fingers against the wooden top of the desk.

"Sit, Ms. Granger," he says warmly, motioning his arm to the empty chair in front of her.

She pulls the seat out from below the desk and sits, crossing her right leg over her left and securing her fingers together in an attempt to stop them from shaking.

"I want to apologize again for last night—"

"Ah," he cuts her off, "It really is not a problem. Much worse has happened in that bathroom—believe it or not."

Hermione exhales a sigh of relief, allowing the tension to trickle from her mouth and dissipate in the air. The calm aura of Titus smothers her fears and opposedly generates a warm environment, one where she feels herself sinking into the plush cushion of the seat.

"So, you were an acquaintance of theirs at Hogwarts, I presume?" Titus asks.

Hermione almost laughs at the comment, but she crushes her lips together in an attempt to retain the pleasant atmosphere which they've just fostered.

"I wouldn't call it that," Hermione answers with a grain of salt.

Titus raises an eyebrow. "You all had some differences, then?"

"Some too difficult for us to see through, I'm afraid."

"You know," Titus starts, opening his drawer and lifting out a packet of cigarettes, "I hate that bloody housing system at Hogwarts. It creates such division, if you ask me."

"I didn't know you went to Hogwarts," Hermione says as Titus removes a cigarette from the packet, lodges it between his lips, and snaps his fingers to light a fire at the bud. As the end of the cigarette blazes, Titus inhales the smoke and puffs occasionally, creating a fog around his mouth that consequently disperses into the air.

"Oh, yes," he says with the cigarette lodged in his mouth. "I was a Slytherin." He removes the cigarette and holds it between his index and middle finger, teetering it up and down as his hand leans against his desk. "Quite an experience, actually. Went to school during the first war." He shakes his head and clears his throat, inhaling another puff of the smoke. "What a fucking prick that Voldemort was. Right on you for ending that fucker's life."

Hermione forces a smile, tainted with the knowledge that her efforts were secondary in that feat. "That was Harry," she refutes, raising his eyebrows.

"Well, to my knowledge, you played a rather large role in the downfall of Voldemort. Don't sell yourself short, Ms. Granger."

Hermione all of a sudden feels elated that someone is on her side—someone she barely fucking knows, at that.

Another drag of the cigarette, another puff of the lingering smoke.

"When Voldemort disappeared the first time, I thought I would catch a fucking break. There were classmates of mine who—I mean, bloody hell—they were disgusting. Some of them would just go on and on about this Voldemort character—" Titus waves his cigarette in the air as he paints Hermione a picture of his life at Hogwarts— "Well, I saw right through it. Fucking demagogue bastard if I'd ever seen one. Now, some were more recluse about their views than others. They stalked in the shadows as if they were just itching for their time to come out. Fucking psychopaths, if you ask me. All of them."

"Do you know any of the original Death Eaters, then?" Hermione inquires, her curiosity taking over and forcing the question out against her better judgement.

"Ah, no. Most of the fuckers I went to school with never took the mark. They didn't get close enough to him Voldemort. Suckers."

Another question, stemming from the same interest and—dare she say it, nosiness—escapes her mouth without proper contemplation.

"Do you know how _they_ were able to get the mark, then?" Hermione asks quietly.

Titus inhales a whiff of his cigarette, inhaling the smoke almost entirely.

"I don't mean to pry," she adds, lowering her head. "It's just... it's always been an enigma to me. And I want to help them, but I think I need to understand their choices before I do so."

Titus nods and sucks in a gust of air through his teeth. "I've tried to understand myself—truly, I have. Those kids... they're... they were just lost. Desperate for someone to see them, you know?" He sighs, his eyes glazing over the spot where Hermione sits as if to bend the air and create a mirage of the scene, one that he could watch unfold before his eyes to truly understand their intentions.

Titus continues. "Look, I don't want to remove all the blame from them, yeah? They made some mistakes, some bad choices. And now, they'll live with that for the rest of their lives. But maybe if someone has just been there for them..." He falters, and Hermione watches as his tongue jabs the inside of his cheek, as if he's trying to stop himself from excusing their actions entirely. "Fucking hell. They're still making bad choices. And I'm enabling it." Titus rubs his eyes with the heel of his hands, careful not to swipe the lit cigarette near his face. "You must think poorly of me for enabling them."

"What?" Hermione asks, shock resounding in her voice. "No, of course not. It's not that simple."

"If I can be honest with you, I'm rather ashamed of it. Even offering them rum is something that I fear. They all have demons, and I'm feeding them."

The discourse reminds Hermione of what Adrian said to her in the bathroom the night before—how he blames himself for the choices that others make simply because he feels the burden of trying to stop it from happening further. A burden he should not have to bear for anyone but himself.

"It really isn't that simple," Hermione insists, taking a deep breath. "Honestly, I have limited knowledge on the topic of addiction. But I know that it's not something which they can easily control. It's wired in their brains to be codependent on these things. The reality is, Titus, that you are not the one putting drugs in their hands. That was done a long time ago. By people who don't care for them."

"I'm providing a setting, though," Titus admits. "A place where it's normalized."

"And are you chastising them for it? Rebuking them? Tearing them down? Causing them to feel worse about themselves?"

"No," he mumbles. "I'd never do that."

"Then you're already doing better for them than the rest of the world."

With one last inhale of his cigarette, Titus inspects the shrunken bud in his hand. He twists it three times in his fingers, and suddenly it dissolves into the air.

Hermione fiddles with her fingers and bites her lower lip. "To tell you the truth, I worry about enabling them as well."

Titus glances at her, a twinkle in his eye affirming to Hermione his sincere care for the matter. "Have you tried the drugs they use, then?"

She's hesitant, but she nods. "Yes. Last night, actually."

"Ah, that's why my bathroom was bloody destroyed," he remarks with a grin.

"It was stupid of me," she says with a sunken laugh. "I just wanted to try. I've always been so... uptight. And, over the last few months, spending every day with them has created this bond between us—this trust. I trusted them enough to try the drugs." Hermione pauses, the wheels in her brain turning and guiding her to reach a conclusion. "That's the whole point of experimentation, right? Do it with someone who you trust? I mean, that's why they do it together, and it's why they do it here, right?"

"Mmm," Titus answers with a nod. "Yes. And experimenting is not the issue. It's the reliance that damages you. No one judges you for experimenting, Ms. Granger. Truly. It feels good for the moment, yes. You know that already. But once the high is done, it's hell. Those kids—" he points out the door – "They're in Hell. And you can't help them in you're in Hell either, Ms. Granger."

Hermione nods, accepting Titus' words as completely true. Although endeavoring with the drugs had been exhilarating, stimulating, and sensational beyond words could describe, she knows the effects they could have on her should she continue to indulge in them.

"They need someone like you to help them, Ms. Granger," Titus adds, leaning forward in his chair.

Hermione shakes her head and closes her eyes, forcing the salty tears to remain in the back of her head where they belong. "I don't know if I'm well-equipped enough to handle something like this," she admits quietly, a hint of guilt in her voice. She feels like Adrian—like she's failing them, even though she holds no control over the situation. "I know almost nothing about addiction."

"You seem to know quite a bit already just from being with them," Titus responds. "I don't mean to place this burden on you because it certainly isn't yours to bear, but perhaps you can do some research about the topic. If you are dedicated to helping them, then understanding the reasoning for their codependence is key."

"I could do that," Hermione says, and she adds a mental reminder to do her research on muggle drugs and addiction as soon as time allows for it.

"You certainly don't have to be the one to guide them out of their addiction. In fact, I think it'd be beneficial if they were to see a real professional. But, in the meantime, they need someone to just _care_ about them. And that's where you come. That's where you clearly shine the most bright out of all of us."

"I do?" Hermione asks, having trouble believing his words. She's only just met him, anyway. How could he possibly know if she is the right person for this? How, after only a five-minute conversation, can Titus wholeheartedly endorse his trust in Hermione?

"They need rehab soon, Ms. Granger," Titus sighs.

Hermione nods solemnly. "I know. Believe me—I know."

-

Before she can be dragged back to their apartment, Hermione feels two sets of hands latch onto her arms and tug her in the opposite direction. The culprits, Pansy and Theo, smile as they tow her down the sidewalk of Hogsmeade, separating themselves from the group and altering their trajectory for the afternoon.

"Where are you lot wandering off to?" Adrian asks, turning around and lifting his arms in the air in perplexity.

"We're taking Granger to do some last-minute Christmas shopping!" Pansy replies, walking backwards with Hermione's arm still locked in hers.

"Don't keep her too long, yeah?" Daphne calls out.

"We won't!" Theo says, and then they're dragging Hermione off into Hogsmeade and window-shopping amidst the busy and hectic afternoon. Just as it was this morning, families continue to shop and stroll through the town.

With Theo and Pansy on her sides, Hermione imagines them as a unit as well.

They make their way to a small holiday shop just a few blocks down. Stepping inside, the three of them gaze at the sweets, the toys, the books, and the decorations lined up in the store, ready for consumers to pick and choose their presents and embellishments.

"I'll be a few minutes," Pansy says, briskly kissing Theo on his rosy cheek and strolling deeper into the store, stroking trinkets and objects with her nimble fingers as she passes by every table.

Hermione steals a glance at Theo, who watches Pansy wander off with immense adoration. She can see it in his chocolate eyes—they glimmer like they're staring right at a diamond, at the most precious jewel on earth. His chest lifts in one perfect breath, and he releases the air in another fluid motion, like he's trying to send his love for her through the atmosphere so that it might eventually reach her air. So that she might breathe it in and understand how strong his feelings are for her.

Hermione doesn't know if she has the right to ask the question, but she does it anyway, figuring that her gutsy attitude could carry itself in this setting as well.

"How long have you and Pansy been together?"

Theo smiles, as if Hermione has unlocked a memory in his conscious that he often returns to. As if their story is one erected on the peak of love stories, towering over every other fable or fairytale.

"It was sixth year, when we took the marks." Theo clears his throat, licking his lips as the memories wash over his mind. "She and I were both rather lonely, and it just sort of... happened. We gravitated towards one another. It didn't mean much at first. It started out as just a way to escape our choices, forget about everything else around us. It was... convenient. Honestly. But... I remember one day we were eating breakfast in the Great Hall together. Just her and I. And the way she played with food, the way she sighed, the way she breathed. The way her hair hugged her cheeks and her eyes were shining against the reflection of those silver goblets. Fucking hell, I felt like I was drowning. Not in a bad way, though; I wanted to drown. I _wanted_ to suffocate in everything that she did. In her mannerisms. In her glow. In... everything."

As Theo explains his relationship with Pansy, Hermione watches as his face becomes more flushed with color, kissed by the confirmation of genuine love. She'd seen a similar look between other couples in her life, but the way Theo's mien cries for Pansy is something she'd never witnessed. It's in his glistening eyes and plush smile that Hermione realizes how much Theo loves Pansy. How it's not just infatuation that compels them towards one another, but a deep affection and a continual devotion that sustains their love.

"Ever since then, we've been inseparable. She's my anchor. The most wonderful person in the world. She's sharp and feisty and intense, but _bloody hell_ she's brilliant, gorgeous, and the most important person I have."

"She's lucky to have someone like you to say things like that about her," Hermione says.

Theo chuckles. "Now, I'm not as blatantly transparent as Adrian, but I'll tell you this. There's someone out there who would say the same for you as well, Granger."

She feels the ghost of Draco all over her. The insinuations come back again and again, torturing her unsatiated mind with more questions, more perplexities, and more uncertainties. Just when she thinks that she has Draco all figured out, he slips between her fingers all over again, and she finds herself back to square one, struggling to pin him down.

"I see," she whispers.

Theo shifts from his heels to his toes as he asks the following question: "Are you going to help us, Granger?"

Hermione's eyes look up at Theo from the side. She swears that the corner of his eye is stained with a tear that he is desperate to hold in. "Yes. I am."

Theo nods and bites his lower lip. "We want you to have a good time with us, we really do. But at the same time, we'll do anything to make sure you don't end up like us. Because there's a major difference between indulging once or twice and full on being addicted, yeah?"

"Theo—"

"Just, _please_ don't end up like us, okay? It's alright to experiment with the drugs, but you should know that we'll all do everything to make sure you stay clean. You understand?"

Theo looks at Hermione with intense concentration, like he needs to hear her response in order to breathe. Like any answer other than yes would undoubtedly throw him into a tempest of shame and pity.

She nods. "Yes. I understand."

He continues, the words spilling out of him like showers from a cloud. "Because we need you. We _really_ need you. The most competent therapist in the world could tend to us, but it really wouldn't matter because they wouldn't be you."

Hermione is in shock by his words, his candidness, and his dedication to keeping her as safe as possible. It draws her heavily to him as she shifts slightly to the right, resting her arm against his as a means of retaining the warm connection they have fostered in this moment. This moment, where Pansy shops for Christmas gifts, and Theo placidly begs Hermione to stay clean. She'd have never expected this exchange to occur between them, but the trajectory of her life has never been stagnant. It ebbs and flows like the gyrations in the air, constantly bearing new challenges and opportunities, new friends and experiences, and above all new lessons.

"It's just that you know us. You've seen us at our best, but you've also seen some of us at our worst. You _know_ us."

_She has to ask about the mark. She has to._

"Theo," Hermione starts, feeling a knot configure in the pit of her stomach, "I really want to help you all. So, I need to ask you something. Something that might seem strange and questionable. But I need you to answer truthfully."

Theo nods. "Okay."

"Yesterday, when I grabbed onto your left arm when I almost tripped walking up the stairs... And you squirmed under my grasp... Why did you do that?"

Theo takes a deep breath, attempting to control his shaky inhalation. But Hermione can feel the reverberation of his anxiety.

When he answers in the way she suspected, she's both relieved and terrified.

"There's... something happening to my mark."

"Theo..."

"It was happening to Pansy's as well. And then it started to happen to mine. And I think it's happening to the others, but they won't say anything about it. They've been purposely wearing long sleeves, and—" He pauses, a soft grunt escaping his throat. "It's actually been feeling better today than most days, but I'm... Granger... I'm really scared. I'm really fucking scared of what's going on. Because we can't go through this again. We're already stuck with these _fucking_ marks forever. I don't know how much more pain my body can take at this point."

There they are. The tears. Hermione sees them clearly now, watering at the bottom of his lids and driving his eyes open to feel the sweet release, to contact the atmosphere and settle on his olive skin.

"I'm so sorry, Theo," Hermione says, internalizing the blame with every cell she has. "I'm so sorry I didn't do anything to help you the day that Aberfield..."

She doesn't finish her sentence. It's too difficult for her to say.

The memory torments her.

Theo shakes his head and wipes away his tears. "This isn't your fault. Don't put this on yourself. We're going to be okay. All of us. We just need you on our side. Please. Please be on our side, Granger."

"I am," she says reassuringly. "I swear, I am."

-

Hermione doesn't know how she ended up sleeping in Adrian's bed for the night, lying adjacent to Draco Malfoy in the bed to her right.

Adrian had insisted yet again that she sleep in his bed while he take the couch. She'd vehemently fought against it, swearing that the couch was just fine.

But Adrian, tenacious as ever, had other plans.

_"Granger, will you please just take my bed? I'll sleep on the couch, I insist."_

_Adrian's resolve was clear to Hermione. She was just bloody terrified of what it might hold. Sleeping in the same room as Draco would certainly pose several challenges, all of which stemmed from her immense awkwardness about their current situation._

_How she could go from being so confident and bold in one moment to acting like a frightened mouse in another moment was beyond her comprehension. She'd worked so hard to construct a tough façade around Draco, but it seemed that every moment he looked at her with those eyes he would successfully chip away a block of her self-assuredness. He'd do so until she faltered to a puddle of feebleness in front of him, a moat of frailty that he could easily tread upon, should he wish to use her in such a way._

_"I don't want to be trouble, Adrian," she started, but she was quickly interrupted by a tsk and a flick of his hand._

_"I wouldn't be offering it if it was trouble."_

_"That's..."_

_Hermione's words waned; she was unsure of how to proceed without floundering over impractical and puerile excuses._

_The truth was that Hermione did want to share a room with Draco. She wanted to mask in his minty scent, tango with the temptations of proximity, and sink in his mannerisms, all driven by the clear presence of enchantment between them, enchantment that had surreptitiously festered within both of them for years._

_"That's true," she admitted._

_"And Draco doesn't bite," Adrian added with a naughty smirk. Draco visibly tensed his jaw at Adrian's antics, itching to enter his room and sleep in utter peace. "Isn't that right, Draco?"_

_"Not unless I'm provoked."_

_Hermione's limbs stiffened at the comment._

_"Hmpfh. Alright. Well, Granger,_ draco dormiens nunquam titillandus _," Adrian said with a wink._

Never tickle a sleeping dragon.

_"The Hogwarts motto," Hermione sighed with a smile._

_"Works well for this situation, if you ask me," Adrian responded, thereby terminating the discussion and sending Hermione off to solidify her fate._

Hermione craves sleep, requires the release from consciousness after her lack of dreaming last night. As she tosses under Adrian's covers, shifting positions every minute or so, she becomes irritated with her inability to close her eyes and drift off into a period of rest.

While darkness clouds her eyesight, every other sense is stimulated, allowing her to hear several things very clearly. The soft breaths of Draco to her right keep her wide awake. He's several feet away, but it's as if every breath is shared with hers, like the air is constantly filtering between them.

He sniffles constantly. Each little inhale into his nose pierces the silence of the room like a quiet lightning strike, if ever there was such a thing.

And every small movement he makes is like an earthquake to her. It magnetizes her desire to twist her head ever so slightly to look at him and test her stealthy night-vision.

In the dark, she can faintly perceive the outline of his body under his covers. And he's... shaking. The covers ripple across the contours of his body, creating a haunting silhouette.

He shakes, yet the room is warm. His chills, Hermione deduces, must be brought on by something else.

_Is he still awake?_

She raises her torso off of the mattress and rests against her right elbow, inspecting him with greater intent and care.

Suddenly, Draco turns onto his back and glares at the ceiling.

"Granger, go to bed."

She stiffens as if she's been petrified.

_Fucking hell, crawling into a hole sounds perfect right about now. Maybe launching herself in front of a train, or out the window, or just anywhere else, would be better than this situation._

Hermione clears her throat and turns over onto her back. "Sorry, I just... Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. Go to bed."

Hermione sighs, tugging the covers further over her chest to draw more heat.

Her mental capacity for more repartee has dwindled, but she can't physically take speaking to Draco without wanting... more. Without craving the sweet release of drowning in his words. Without wanting to learn more about him, be close to him, make him feel... warm and valued.

"I just wanted to make sure that—"

"Didn't Adrian tell you not to poke a sleeping dragon?"

"Yes—"

"And what do you think you're doing at the moment?"

She gulps. "Poking a dragon."

"Precisely."

"But you're not sleeping."

"No. I'm not."

"So am I really poking a sleeping dragon if you're not sleeping?"

"Fucking hell, if you want to be a swot all the _fucking_ time—"

Draco stops himself and sighs, much to Hermione's surprise.

"Just... go to bed. You need to sleep. I'm fine."

She sighs and rolls over to face the opposite wall.

"Right, then. Goodnight," she spurts, her cheeks red from the mortification of their conversation and the way she plagued their pure air with her incessant questions and relentless curiosity.

There's a period of silence between them, and Hermione settles in the reality that Draco likely won't reply to her farewell.

After several seconds, two melodious syllables escape his mouth in the most pleasant echo possible. It reverberates in the air and seeps into her skin like the gentle kiss of amicability.

"Goodnight."

Hermione is asleep in moments, the promise of Christmas dawning on her subconscious as she dreams of a gentle snowfall and a warm cup of tea straight from that red and yellow teapot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did someone say... character development?   
> love you all! thank you for reading! <3


	18. Chapter 18

Dreaming has always been difficult for Hermione.

It is the lack of control over her deepest, darkest thoughts amalgamated with the risk that her mind takes when it succumbs to sleep that she fears the most. She fears it simply because she doesn't understand it— _shocking._ Something she doesn't understand. That doesn't come around quite often, but Hermione can admit that dreaming is something which she questions every single time she closes her eyes.

Her imagination can run amok, take the moments from the previous day or from other eventful days in her life, mesh them together in a congealed clusterfuck of situations and possibilities, and lead her to question the world around her in ways she simply does not have the energy or mental capacity to cope with or handle.

She hates the instability of dreaming, the phenomenon of teetering between consciousness and unconsciousness, lucidity and insentience, eyes open and eyes closed. She supposes it has something to do with her distaste for the ethereal, the unknown, the far-fetched realities available in her head that bring about uncertain situations.

Uncertain situations that all center around the blonde lying in the bed adjacent to her.

Tonight, he's in her dreams, as if her brain has manifested her new reality and is intent on teasing her with it. She sleeps, her brain velvety with the kiss of her slumber, but then suddenly he is there. Wandering around her mind as if he fucking owns it.

They walk, shoulder to shoulder, somewhere unfamiliar to her. The ambiance feels oddly familiar, but she does not immediately recognize the setting. In the dark of the night, with the luminescent moon being the only source of luster, they walk in a garden. Draco guides her through a maze of towering, green hedges, stone-carved fountains, and cobble-stoned pathways. They stumble upon white peacocks grazing in open fields—Hermione wonders how the animals are able to withstand the frigid cold weather.

She strangely feels at home. Like the path they are walking on is one they've been traveling for years. They pave the trail with their soft footsteps, speaking only through hasty glances and soft smiles.

It starts to snow in her dream. Little white flurries, all distinct yet perfect.

And as she tips her head back and spins on her heels to wonder at the sky above her, Hermione's eyes subsequently fall upon a large, stone manor standing tall and proud in the near distance.

Lucidity creeps back into her brain. Like an alarm clock, she tells herself to wake up.

Hermione's eyes split open, effectively chasing away the puzzling dream. She rubs the sleep off of her groggy eyes and stares at the ceiling for several seconds, adjusting to her return to consciousness.

When she twists her head to the right to look at Draco's bed, she finds that he is not there. His duvet is crumpled at the foot of his bed, his pillow abandoned with only the indentation of his head to prove that he was once there, that this isn't all just a dream.

Hermione lifts her torso off of the mattress. Her eyebrows furrow as she searches the room for him. But she's undoubtedly alone; she realizes that the room feels somewhat chilly without him there. Like somehow just merely his presence warms her body, and without it she feels just as cold as she did in the dream.

As her eyes turn back to gaze at his empty bed, Hermione notices through the window etched into the wall that it is still pitch-black outside, save the white flurries that fall from the sky and coat the windowsill.

Her eyesight still rather dull, Hermione discovers that her hearing is strong. And behind the door of her room, she perceives two voices speaking quietly. Their whispers are low and peaceful yet still audible.

_Curse her curiosity._

With the stealth of a mouse, Hermione swings her bare legs off of the side of the bed and tip toes towards the door. She can see through the small opening between the door and the frame that the light of the living room is turned on, glowing in an orange hue. She presses her hand against the wall next to the door and leans her ear against the slit, listening to the muffled conversation.

"I don't think I can do it," she hears. "It's too hard."

"Not even until tomorrow, mate?"

It is unquestionably Draco and Adrian beyond the door, both of their voices engrained in her mind.

"I don't think so," Draco continues, his voice hoarse and drowsy. "My anxiety is fucking killing me."

"Alright, remember what we talked about, yeah? Deep breaths. Deep breaths—in and out."

"I'm trying, mate. I'm trying."

Hermione's eyebrows crease as she attempts to decipher the conversation. She can feel her heart thump against her ribcage; she knows it's wrong to eavesdrop. But she harbors so many unanswered questions about Draco—questions she is apprehensive to ask him in fear of being maliciously refuted and burned by his fiery words.

"You challenged yourself to hold out at least until the end of Christmas. Come on, mate. You can do this. It's one day at a time."

"I'm not ready... I'm just not ready."

Hermione's suspicions are confirmed: Draco isn't taking his drugs. He's trying to withdraw.

"What about Granger?"

A beat, both in Hermione's heartbeat and in the air. The world ceases to turn on its axis when she hears her name, trapping her in a vacuum of uncirculated air. She'll suffocate without hearing his response.

"Don't—"

"Come on, Draco. She'd be so proud of you. It's one day at a time."

"I can't—"

"Alright, look. You've got me. You hear me? You've got me. I can try with you, yeah? Like last time?"

_Last time?_ Hermione thinks to herself.

"That was hell, Adrian."

"Yeah, well, Hell is better with a friend than by yourself."

There's a silence on the other side of the door. All Hermione can hear are her unsteady breaths, expanding her diaphragm and dispelling from her mouth in smooth drafts. She waits for an answer, for a breath, for anything to come from the other side. The reticence kills her, eats her alive from the inside out. Her stomach churns with anticipation. She waits for his voice, his response, even a groan, moan, grunt—something to confirm his presence.

"Okay. Another day."

She lets out her trapped breath.

"I'm proud of you, you hear me? They'd all be proud of you, too. She'd be proud of you."

Just like that, her breath catches in her throat yet again, because this isn't her conversation to be listening to, this isn't her business, this isn't _right._

Hermione pulls away from the door and climbs back into the bed, clutching the duvet and dragging it over her body. She turns on her left shoulder and grips the bedding tightly, wanting to be smothered by its warmth so that she can find sleep yet again.

A few moments later, the door opens. Her eyes delicately shift to watch Draco enter the room. When he turns around to close the door, he holds the handle down tightly, careful not to let the lock click. With the door closed, Draco sneaks back into his bed, slumps under the covers, and sighs, the breath escaping his mouth sounding drained and shattered.

Hermione falls back asleep, unsure of what becomes of Draco once she finds herself dreaming of Malfoy Manor again, roaming the gardens with Draco as if they own them.

-

Hermione awakens to two different sensations—the translucent yet dulled rays of the sun piercing through the window and the smell of tea lingering right beside her nose.

When her eyes flutter open, she's met with the steady flow of steam emitting from a maroon mug on the wooden nightstand between her bed and Draco's bed.

His bed, which is empty yet again.

She sighs, lifting her torso off of the mattress and leaning against her right forearm. She peers over the rim of the mug, inspecting the color of the tea—pale, infused with plenty of milk, just how she likes it. Sticking out of the mug is the handle of a small, metal spoon. Hermione reaches her fingers out to remove the utensil; upon lifting it from the hot tea, she observes the remnants of thick honey coating the bowl of the spoon.

She smiles and brings it to her mouth, sucking and licking the remaining honey off with her tongue. Pushing the duvet off of her body, Hermione swipes her legs along the side of the bed and sits on the edge. Her feet meet the hardwood floor, curling as a way to stretch and relieve tension. She reaches for the mug and takes a sip of the tea—piping hot and concocted just to her liking.

A gentle and muted knock at the door draws her out of her morning daze.

"Granger? Are you awake?"

Hermione stands and faces the door, tightly clutching the handle of the mug with her fingers. "Yes," she calls out, patting down and shaping her messy hair.

The door opens slowly, and Pansy pops her head inside. "Hey," she greets with a raspy voice, "Can you come out? We've got a surprise for you."

Hermione smiles and nods, eyeing the pajamas which she borrowed from Daphne on her body. "Do I need to change into something nicer?"

Pansy grins and shakes her head. "The outfit is great. You don't need anything else. Yet."

She winks and disappears from Hermione's vision, leaving the door slightly open. Hermione sighs and prepares herself for the inevitable moment. She steps around Adrian's bed and reaches for the handle, feeling it sizzle with the secrets from the night before. Biting her lip and casting a façade—one that says she knows nothing about Draco or Adrian's endeavors for the day—Hermione pulls the door open and emerges into the living room.

She's met with six pairs of eyes. On the couch beside the television stand sits Pansy and Theo. Pansy's legs are intertwined with Theo's, her hand running through his espresso hair as she smiles and pricks her nose against his. On the opposite couch, Blaise and Daphne sit together, Daphne's legs curled up as she leans into Blaise's chest. Sitting before them on the ground and leaning their backs against the bottom of the couch are Adrian and Draco.

They all sip on their tea and chat quietly amongst themselves, their dispositions cheery yet tinged with a certain worn-out energy.

Blaise is the first to address Hermione when she exits her room. "Hey! Happy Christmas," he says with a smile, lifting his right arm off the arm of the couch and dropping it back down with a light _thud._

Like she's discovered gems in a cave, Daphne's face lights with excitement, and she rushes off the couch and into Hermione's arms. Careful not to spill the tea in the mug in her hand, Hermione embraces Daphne with her left arm and holds the cup out to the side. Daphne smells like flowers and lavender, and the scent journeys through Hermione's nostrils to draw her into a serene and composed state.

"Happy Christmas, Hermione!" Daphne exclaims with a grin as she pulls away from their hug.

"Happy Christmas, Daphne," Hermione responds.

"Come on over, darling. We're going to open presents," Daphne insists, taking Hermione's hand in hers and dragging her to the center of the room. Hermione holds onto the mug for dear life as the tea sloshes in the pit of the mug.

_Presents. Holy fuck, she's forgotten to get them presents._

"Oh, I... I haven't..." Hermione falters, her mouth flipping downwards in a frown as her lips quiver with distress. "I've completely overlooked getting you all anything for Christmas—"

"Oh," Theo sarcastically groans, throwing his arms in the air in a phony sense of disappointment, "That's it! Kick her out! I can't even bear to look at her." He turns his face away and sticks his hand out, dramatically avoiding eye contact.

Hermione giggles quietly and shakes her head. "I'll make it up to you all, I promise."

Adrian tuts, and Hermione's eyes meet his on the floor. "Granger, your presence is the perfect gift for all of us." He turns to his left and pats Draco's knee. "Isn't that right, Malfoy?"

Draco glances at Hermione and licks his lips just before lifting his tea to his mouth. "Certainly," he answers.

Hermione notices something—while the others drink from porcelain mugs, Draco drinks from a paper cup. The way his cherry lips latch onto the rim of the cup and the way he stares at her while supping his tea sets off fireworks in her spine. Even more, the manner which his eyes speak to her is both terrifying yet inviting.

"Alright, Hermione, close your eyes. We have your presents," Blaise says, rising from the couch and wandering around the back towards the tree. Hermione closes her eyes and smiles, waiting anxiously for the moment she can open them again.

"Alright... Open them!"

When she lifts her lids, Hermione's eyes fall upon two gifts on the couch where Blaise was sitting. Replacing the spot where he once sat is a mug—red with bands of golden waves running around the entire cup—and a small, white, fuzzy rectangular bed, around two feet wide and a foot long.

Adrian smiles brightly, twisting his back and patting the bed with his palm. "We got your little kneazle a bed for when he comes to visit!" he cheers with a cheeky smile. "Now, there's no excuses for not bringing him over to stay with us."

Hermione's voice trembles as she tries to speak. Her mouth hangs open in shock, happiness, bliss—whatever emotion currently surges through her body in excess amounts. She could cry. She could _fucking_ cry at the gesture. At the complete shift in the way they treated her when she first saw them a few months ago.

Between that day in Kingsley's office and today, something undoubtedly changed.

"I... you... this is..."

Hermione can barely utter the sentence. Her heart works double-time as it beats for each and every one of them. She does everything in her realm to pull it together and deliver a courteous expression of her gratitude.

"This is so wonderful," she mutters. "Thank you so much."

"Do you like the Gryffindor colors?" Pansy asks, pointing to the mug and raising her perfectly sculpted eyebrows. "Picked it out myself yesterday. Thought you might appreciate some red and gold in an otherwise green and silver environment. You're welcome." She winks.

It clicks. Not that it didn't before, but Hermione finally realizes whose mug she has in her hands. She looks down at it, remembering the way he conjured the Christmas decorations with the same mug in his hand.

With the realization that it's Draco's, Hermione lifts the cup to her mouth and takes a small sip, savoring the way the china feels upon her lips.

"Daph," Pansy says, rising from Theo's lap and approaching the tree, "I've got your gift right here, love." She bends behind the couch, and when she rises back up again, Hermione sees a cardboard box with light pink wrapping paper sticking out of the lid. Tucking her hair behind her ear, Pansy passes the gift to Daphne, who stands with Blaise next to the couch closest to the tree.

"Oh, Pans," Daphne says sweetly, taking the box in her hand, "Is it what I think it is?"

"Mhm," Pansy responds with a smile.

Her little fingers fumbling with the lid of the box, Daphne pulls the flap open and rummages through the wrapping paper to reach her gift. Hermione's eyes briefly glance towards Theo, who gestures her over with a nod of his head. He scoots to the right to make room for Hermione on the couch next to him; she sits down and rests the mug upon her bare legs, letting the heat singe against her skin as a source of great warmth.

Daphne gasps when she reaches her present. She pulls out a miniscule snow globe; the base is a pear green color with little pink bows lining the middle and curling around the border. Inside the snow globe, amidst the snow flurries and sparkles, stands the Eiffel Tower upon a green mound.

"Aw, Pans! I love it!" Daphne exclaims, wrapping her arms around Pansy's shoulders and kissing her head. "You're the best."

"No worries, darling," Pansy responds through a soft giggle. She treads back to the tree and pulls out more gifts. "Alright, boys. Here are your gifts." She hands a small bag to Draco, Adrian, and Blaise, then proceeds to plop down on the couch next to Theo again.

Hermione watches as the three pull out their gifts from the crimson bags.

Ash trays. All different colors—Blaise's is clear, Adrian's jet black, and Draco's is silver.

"They're customized with your initials," Pansy adds, raising her eyebrow in a cheeky smirk, reveling in her touching addition to the presents.

"Pans!" Blaise exclaims. "These are great!"

"Yes, well," Pansy starts, shrugging her shoulders, "I am a woman of taste. Not to mention the best gift-giver here." She turns to the left to gaze at Theo sweetly. "Your present is coming soon, love."

"Ah, I get another one?" Theo coos cheekily, dropping his head to kiss her neck briefly. "But you already gave me a such a sweet gift this morning."

"Yes, and we heard it loud and clear, like usual," Draco mutters, rolling his eyes playfully and sipping his tea. Hermione grins lightly without even thinking about it—the expression just appears organically, like it's been itching to come out, burning to hear Draco's humor come to fruition.

"I haven't gotten _my_ Christmas gift from Draco," Adrian coos, tilting his head and gazing at Draco with doe-eyes.

Draco scoffs. "Keep dreaming, Adrian."

"Oh, fucking hell. I'm a man with needs," Adrian sighs, leaning back further into the plush couch and taking a sip of his own tea. He pats Draco's knee twice, looks at Hermione, and winks.

Daphne chuckles and twirls her snow globe in her hand. "So," she interjects, her cheeks beaming with utter enjoyment at the situation, "We'll leave in an hour, yeah?"

Hermione glances around the room as each of them nod. "Where are we going?" she asks.

"Somewhere special," Theo answers, leaning towards Hermione with a mischievous grin. "Have we let you down with our surprises yet, Granger?"

"No," she answers, shaking her head and smiling back at him.

Theo nods his head affirmatively. "Dress warm and bring that lovely, adventurous spirit of yours, and you'll be just fine."

_Just fine_. Hermione loves the way Theo says it, like he's coaxing her into something both exciting yet tame at the same time. She takes another sip of her tea, the honey trickling down her throat as a means of subduing her apprehensions.

She's been doing that lately—learning to let go. Letting the people before her chip away at her walls of anxiety and her compulsive need for control.

Her secret wish: allow Draco to break down the highest of them all.

-

When Hermione is in public, she's usually met with smiles and nods of the head, as if the whole wizarding world knows exactly who she is. As if her face is engrained in their minds as the witch who saved them from demise.

On her walk through Hogsmeade today, huddled among the group of Slytherins, she feels the complete opposite.

Every person that passes by them—old, middle age, even young—glares at them, like they know of their secrets. Like they know exactly who this group of people is simply by what they read in the Daily Prophet or see on the outside or have heard from others.

Hermione hates how the world looks at them. It couldn't be more different from how she sees each of them. Daphne, with her sweet eyes and compassionate spirit; Pansy, with her benevolent and strong disposition; Blaise, with his inexorable dedication to loving and protecting each of his friends; Theo, with his enormous heart and lovable smile; Adrian, with his cheery and sugary personality, skilled at soothing everyone's anxious spirits when necessary; even Draco, with his unexplainable need to protect Hermione, demonstrated by subtle sidesteps and glances with his silver eyes, eyes that she could melt in if she just gave in. If he let her in.

If the world could let them in, then they'd see it to. They'd see this group how Hermione sees them.

Their shoes crunch on the snow as they tread even further into the outskirts of Hogsmeade, down an all too familiar path to Hermione. Her shoulder is glued to Daphne's, their arms linked as they giggle and chat on the walk. Daphne tells her about her love of snow globes, explaining that she loved to collect them from each city she's ever been to.

"When I left my family a few years ago to live with these crazies," she explains as they stride through a bank of trees, "I left all of my snow globes behind. Salazar knows where they are now. I've been trying to replace them ever since."

Finally, after several minutes of walking, Hermione sees it in the distance.

The Shrieking Shack. It looks just as foreboding and broken down as it did all those years ago. The wooden panels and framework are chipped and flawed, the foundation hanging on by a thread. Hermione wonders if the snow piling on top of the sloped roof will cause it to concave. She is shocked that it still stands so tall to this day; she expected it to come crashing down years ago.

Once the group reaches the fence that bars them from going any closer, they plop down onto the snow and exhale. Hermione sits next to Daphne, recognizing that she feels most comfortable next to her, like Daphne is the friend she has always wanted. Letting her go would be too painful to bear.

"We're lucky it snowed last night," Daphne says, playing with the snow atop her white mittens. "It's always so much prettier and fun to be here when it snows."

Hermione nods, removing her gloves for the moment to caress the snow with her bare hands. She scoops a bundle of flurries in her hand, letting the cold numb her palm for a moment. Turning her hand over, the snow falls back onto the ground and dissolves into the pile. As quick as it numbs her, the remnants of the snow melt from her hand, leaving a small puddle atop her freshly blushed skin. With her finger, she traces circles in the snow, losing herself—giving her sole attention to the phenomenon that rains from the sky so effortlessly.

With the sun peeking through the clouds in the sky, the snow meets a middle ground between sticking to the earth and melting away. Hermione wishes to hold onto it a little longer—let the natural wonders of the world captivate her for just a few moments more. She has so many questions about them.

"I'd like to make a toast," Theo says, standing and removing a flask from his pocket and holding it in the air. The others—save Draco and Adrian—remove flasks from their pockets and lift them up as well.

Hermione notices Draco playing with something in his pocket. Her breath hitches as she contemplates the item—she hopes more than anything that it's not cocaine. That he hasn't relapsed. That he has the strength to hold out just a little longer, even though his face looks beyond fatigued and exhausted.

"First," Theo starts, stretching his arms out, "Let's all pour out a drink for Aberfield and Bruiser. And then pray that their houses catch on fucking fire."

The group giggles, including Hermione.

"Maybe our resident dragon can fly over and spew some flames?" Blaise asks, raising his eyebrows at Draco.

Draco chuckles. "Don't tempt me."

"Alright, alright! This is my toast, let me finish!" Theo says dramatically, as if performing is his forte. "In all seriousness, I'd like to toast Ms. Granger on this holiday." He tips his flask towards her, and the heads of the others glance over at Hermione. They all smile. "For being a brave little minx and joining us degenerates on this holiday. We're all really glad that you're here, Granger. And that you're keeping us from wanting to off ourselves during those fucking seminars."

Another chorus of chuckles from the group resounds through Hermione's heart. She smiles warmly at Theo.

"You're always welcome here, Granger," he continues, clearing his throat. "Even though we've had our differences in the past—"

Theo sucks in his words and reevaluates his sentence. "Even though we've treated you with less than respect, you should know that we all value you, your friendship, and above all your help."

"Here, here," Adrian interjects, raising his hand in agreement.

"I swear, the waterworks are coming on," Pansy jokes, fanning her eyes with her hands.

Daphne waves an imaginary neckerchief in the air, while Blaise whistles, his fingers resting just inside his lips and atop his tongue.

And Draco. He smiles weakly, still fiddling with something in his pocket.

Theo waves his hands to calm the rambunctious crowd. "Alright—look! I've got one last thing to say, okay?"

They mutter among themselves, and Hermione laughs.

Theo smirks in a way that would surely make Jay Gatsby himself jealous of his charm, his swoon, his captivating energy. "Last thing I'll say, Granger, is that now that we've gotten your kneazle a comfortable little bed, we expect him to sleepover soon!"

The final straw—Hermione throws her head back and bursts into a fit of laughter along with the rest of the group.

"Cheers to the kneazle!" Theo shouts, and then he's throwing his head back to take a swig from his flask. He shakes his head as the liquor trickles down his throat, and he breathes warm air out into the chilly atmosphere. "And Happy Christmas, you fuckers!"

The group praises him with cheers and whistles and claps, and Theo revels in the attention before dropping back down next to Pansy and placing a kiss on her cheek.

They drink, joke, and roll around in the snow with one another. Hermione feels the happiness of being with a group of friends swell within her—it'd been so long since she'd experienced this. Her life had been consumed by work and responsibilities for the past few years, building her profile and implementing important policy for the wizarding world.

But something about sitting with a group of people her age—her peers—drinking, laughing, and just experiencing young adulthood in one of its most quintessential forms, brings about such peace and joy within her. Aligned perfectly with the holiday, Christmas with the Slytherins is something she'd never pictured would happen but couldn't be more grateful for at this moment. 

Her mind wanders to the moments she was here with Ron and Harry. Those days seem so far behind.

Hermione rises from the snow, excuses herself for just a moment, and treads towards the fence. She leans her arms against the wood and inhales lightly, letting the atmosphere remind her of those memories.

Then, something horrid crosses her mind.

He called her a mudblood here. In this very spot. Spat in her face and called her a slur.

"Here."

Hermione's thoughts are interrupted by the sound of his voice. She turns to the right to find Draco holding something out for her. It's a tiny, red tin. Before she can ask what it is, Draco's fingers curl up slightly, and with the movement, the tin grows to its original size—half a foot in diameter and decorated with mistletoe and ivy on the lid and around the base.

"Happy Christmas."

Hermione looks back up at Draco and raises an eyebrow.

"It's nothing sappy, okay?" he says, casting an almost lighthearted look down at her. "Just accept the damn present and let it be, Granger."

Hermione takes the tin from Draco. She lifts the lid and peers inside to find several mince pies, dusted with powdered sugar and etched with intricate designs in the pastry. The smell is fresh and wonderful, seeping into her nose and pleasing her tastebuds.

"They look great," she says lightly. "Thank you."

Draco nods his head plainly.

"When did you have time to make them?" Hermione asks, wanting their conversation to continue more than anything in the world. Wanting to bury herself in his velvety voice.

Clearing his throat, Draco answers, "Woke up early this morning to make them."

Hermione's eyebrows shoot up to denote her surprise.

He tuts at her and turns to face the Shrieking Shack. "Honestly, they don't take long to make. Especially when I use magic."

"You use magic to cook?" Her fingers trace one of the pies and her mouth salivates at the fruity scent of the mincemeat exuding from the pastry.

"Sometimes. It's how my mother taught me."

"Do you still use magic for a lot of things, then?" she presses, seeing just how far her questions will take her.

His tongue jabs the inside of his cheek, and Hermione fears that she's struck some sort of nerve, until Draco responds, "I try not to. But when it's useful, yes." Draco cocks his head as Hermione continues to stare at the pies. "You can take one, you know?"

She gazes up at him and laughs. Her fingers wrap around one in the middle, and she lifts the pastry to her mouth and takes a bite. The tastes explode in her mouth—the fruit, the spices, and the zest of the flavors melt in the soft yet flaky pastry. The juicy mincemeat reminds her of Christmas morning, when she'd leave similar pies out for Father Christmas to snack on as he delivered presents. Draco's pies transport her back to those moments, instants when she was still... ordinary.

Not a witch, not a mudblood, not the bloody savior of the wizarding world. Simply Hermione Granger. A little girl who loved Father Christmas and undeniably believed that he savored her mince pies each holiday.

"They're delicious," Hermione says as she swallows the bite.

The side of Draco's lips curl in a soft smile. "I'm glad you like them."

Hermione notices Draco shiver slightly, like a gust of air creeps up his back without warning. But, once again, there's no wind.

She reminds herself of the conversation last night. His body is agitated, antsy, and craving the chemically induced influx of dopamine which his brain relies on. His shivers are reflective of that.

She resolves to move on before her mind focuses on it too much.

"I love how you all come here to celebrate Christmas."

Draco laughs, as if she's unlocked a memory. "Fourth year after the Yule Ball was the first time. We managed to sneak out of the castle, firewhiskey in hand, and make our way here. We sat, chatted, drank." He looks down at Hermione, his chin grazing his shoulder due to their severe height difference. "We tried coming back every year since, but things got more complicated at Hogwarts. Ever since leaving and living so close, though, it's become a lot easier to do it. It's not much, but it's nice."

"More than what I have."

Draco cocks an eyebrow at her, perplexed by her comment.

Hermione shakes her head. "Sorry, didn't mean to make this about myself."

"You don't see your family for the holidays?"

She clears her throat. _He must not remember... must not know..._

"I had to obliviate my parents before the war, and I haven't seen them since."

Draco purses his lips; when he releases them, Hermione can't help but stare at their lovely red tint—moist, enticing, and favorably kissed by the chilly yet pure air.

"I haven't seen mine either. Not since dear old dad got shipped to Azkaban."

"You've not gone back to the manor?" Hermione asks, and suddenly the image in her dream floods her mind. She sucks in a breath as her mind travels further, placing her in Lucius' drawing room, writhing on the cold floor, crying, screaming, begging for someone to help her—

"There's nothing there for me anymore," Draco says solemnly, sniffling lightly.

"Not even your mother?"

Draco draws in a sharp breath through his nose. "That's... complicated."

She sees it in his eyes—she's mentioned something that she shouldn't have. She's pushed him over the edge again. Yet this time, rather than lash out on her, he shuts down completely, his face going slack and his eyes finding the ground.

"Sorry, I shouldn't have prodded—"

"Enjoy the mince pies."

Draco turns and walks away.

"Wait, Malfoy—"

But he's already several feet away, heading straight for Daphne. When he reaches her, he bends down, whispers something in her ear, and then continues to walk off. Daphne's expression shifts from happy to concern; she kisses Blaise on the cheek, stands up, and rushes after Draco. Once she catches up with him, she places her hand on his back and rubs it in circles. They disappear into the path which they came through, and Hermione curses herself under her breath. Curses her curiosity, the way she constantly prods and pries and meddles in other people's business without shame—

"What'd you say to set off the dragon, Granger?"

Adrian flags to her side, and she laughs for a brief moment.

"I asked something I probably shouldn't have." She rolls her eyes, purely at herself and no one else. "It's a problem of mine—prying when I have no business doing so."

Adrian sighs— _Merlin, how does that sound alone calm her nerves?_

"Whatever it was, don't be too hard on yourself. Draco has a hard time dealing with things that bring him pain."

"Yeah."

"But he's trying."

"I know."

"He just needs people who actually care about him."

"I do care," Hermione insists, looking into Adrian's eyes.

He smiles back at her. Another ounce of anxiety, gone. "Well, _I_ know that. And he does too—deep down. It's just hard for him to accept help because he knows that there will be pain that comes with it. It's the pain that will come for all of us when we do finally accept help."

_The withdrawal. The rehab._

"Have you tried withdrawing before?" she asks meekly.

Adrian laughs. "I'm trying at this moment, Granger. And so is he."

Hermione leans her shoulder against the wooden fence, turning to face Adrian. He mirrors her actions, crossing his arms over his chest and one foot over the other.

"How are you feeling?" she asks.

Adrian sighs, like he's preparing to deliver a speech, like broadcasting said speech would be the easiest thing to do. He wouldn't even need marginal notes to read from; he could simply spew everything that he feels in a medley of emotions and sentiments, like it's his millionth time addressing a ginormous crowd. Adrian possesses that level of confidence—confidence that Hermione admires.

Instead, he simply says, "Exhausted. Hungry. Hand me one of those pies, will you?"

She extends the tin towards Adrian, who picks a pie from the cluster and takes a giant bite. He moans and rolls his eyes.

"Merlin, Malfoy is the best."

_Maybe she could ask Adrian..._

"It's his mother's recipe, right?"

Adrian wipes the side of his mouth with his long fingers, nodding slowly.

"I asked Malfoy a question about her, and he stormed off." Hermione looks down, tracing her foot in the snow. "Did I do something wrong?"

Adrian sighs and steps forward, wrapping his arm around Hermione's shoulder and spinning her to face the Shrieking Shack with him. He tugs her into his side in a warm embrace, and his fingers dance on her left shoulder, caressing and tapping against her coat.

"You didn't do anything wrong. Things with Narcissa are... complicated." He takes his right index finger and points it in the air, a contemplative look crossing his face. "Thwarted—that's a sexier word." He looks down and winks at Hermione, who nods with yet another smile, another moment of total delight. "It's best to not push that question with him just yet."

"I understand," Hermione answers, leaning closer into Adrian's side. In the spirit of the holiday, infused with the breath of fresh air which Adrian has created for her, Hermione feels compelled to express her utmost gratitude.

"Can I say something?"

"You're talking to the king of having absolutely no bloody filter. Have on, Granger."

Hermione peers up at Adrian, beaming at his flushed cheeks standing out against his pale skin in the frigid air. "Thank you for everything. For the presents, the welcoming ambiance... For taking care of me a few nights ago. For letting me join your..." She smirks at the next words: "Nightly endeavors."

Adrian pleasantly laughs and tows Hermione in tighter. "We all want you here, Granger. Okay? You understand?"

She nods, truly believing it.

And as Adrian places his chin atop her head and subsequently leans down to place a soft kiss on her curls, Hermione succumbs to his words entirely. She lets them flow through her body and warm her blood and bones.

Adrian tows her shoulder lightly, coaxing her to turn around. "Come on, let's join the others. Otherwise, Malfoy is going to get the wrong idea and murder me in my sleep."

"Subtlety really isn't your thing, is it, Adrian?"

"Oh no. No, no, no." He smiles. "Not when I'd do anything to make Malfoy happy."

"You think there's a way to make Malfoy happier?"

Adrian groans. "Gahhh, Granger! Are my words not getting through your frizzy hair to your ears?" he jokes, placing his hands on both sides of her head and running his fingers through her espresso tendrils. "I know the way he shows his affection isn't obvious. He just doesn't know how. Give him a chance, though." Adrian points to the mince pies. "They're an olive branch. He won't always be forthcoming about how he feels. But he's trying his best. Trust me."

Hermione nods, twisting her head at the sound of snow crunching from several feet away. She watches as Daphne and Draco return. Daphne's arm is linked through Draco's, and she's chatting away with her bubbly spirit. Draco smiles and nods occasionally, but his eyes remain fixed on the ground.

When he finally does look up, he looks at her, as if the earth instinctively pulls their gaze into one. But just as easily as their gaze connects, it's tugged away by something stronger.

Shame. Colored and displayed against his pink cheeks. Embarrassment. Confusion.

And the longing to not drag one another down in each other's traumas.

-

He ignored her for the rest of the day.

During walks through Hogsmeade, meals, teatime—Draco kept his eyes away from Hermione's. Couldn't bear to stare into those ember irises for more than a few seconds without wanting to crash and burn in her arms, relinquish himself to her, tell her how much he wishes he could change the way things turned out.

And at night, when Draco crawled under his covers, he didn't whisper goodnight.

Hermione lies in Adrian's bed yet again, wishing her mind wasn't wired this way. Wishing that she didn't have to spoil the silence with her incessant wondering.

But the quiet is too daunting, much like the way it sounds right before a battle. Right before wands are raised in offense, spells are cast, and lives are lost. She hates the lack of sound right before a fight because she knows it far too well. It lives in her mind like a broken record, replaying and torturing her with the images of her dead peers. Especially in the silence, when all seems too probable—like in her dreams—Hermione craves a sense of control.

"Are we going to have another silent night, then?"

Draco exhales into his pillow. "Oh, fuck's sake, Granger—"

"You can't keep ignoring me, you know," she pushes.

"Yes, I very much can. Watch."

Nothing more comes from his mouth as Draco turns in his bed, his back facing Hermione. She groans, lifting herself from her supine position and hanging her legs off of the bed.

"You're very hot and cold, Malfoy," she continues, running her fingers through her curls.

"A lovely side effect of the drugs," she hears him mutter under his breath.

Hermione exhales. "Well, it's frustrating. Because I don't know where your head is at. And I have a lot of questions that have come up during my stay here that I would like answered at some point."

"Because you just can't bear to leave things unsaid?"

"Precisely."

Draco turns on his back and stares at the ceiling, clasping his hands together and breathing in deeply. Just when Hermione believes she might get somewhere with him, he says, "Go to sleep, yeah?"

Her response just... comes out. Leaves her mouth and leaps into the air like a shooting star would.

"No."

Draco twists his head and furrows his eyebrows. "No?" he repeats.

"No. I don't want to go to sleep. I want to talk to you."

A scoff escapes his lips, and Hermione's body shudders slightly. She doesn't know what it is that makes her feel so alive when she engages in a battle of wits with Draco. Maybe it's the rush of adrenaline, the sense of normalcy, the fucking _excitement_ and _thrill_ of it all that has led her to seek confrontation recently.

Either way, she's looking for it tonight. Something inside is pushing her to push him.

"You want to talk?" Draco taunts, sitting up in his bed and mirroring her actions. Hermione's eyes fall on his tattoos, peeking out of his black t-shirt and coloring his arms with such intrigue that her breath falters. She wants to pick them apart so badly.

Draco continues. "Fine. Let's talk. Go on, Therapist Granger. Pick me apart. See if you can decipher exactly who I am with your questions and deductions."

Hermione prioritizes her questions. "Can I ask you about the drugs—"

"No. Next question."

Hermione inhales through her nose, centering herself, reminding herself that Draco isn't obligated to tell her anything about him. She's lucky he is agreeing to this. She'll take what she can get.

She goes down the list of questions in her mind and lands on one she feels is quite critical and time sensitive.

"Can I ask about your mark?"

She can see his jaw tense in the dimmed lights. "What about it?"

"Does it hurt?"

"Does it _hurt_?" he clarifies.

Hermione shakes her head, realizing the framing of the question is abstruse and obscure. "Sorry, that came out odd—"

"You've got some fucking pain kink, Granger? You want to hear all about the innerworkings of the Dark Mark because—what—it turns on a switch in that brain of yours? The pain I feel is something that you enjoy hearing about?"

She pauses, heeding the words that slipped out of his mouth in his response.

"Are you saying that you are, in fact, in pain?"

Draco presses his lips together and exhales out of his nose, digging his palms into his mattress and lowering his head.

"Malfoy, I need to know if your mark is hurting."

"You don't need to know anything, really."

"I do if I'm ever going to be able to properly help you."

He scoffs. " _Help_. I've told you before that I resent that word."

"How else should I put it, then?" she asks, rolling her eyes. "Any other way sounds completely condescending."

"Maybe because what you all are doing to us is condescending."

She can't fathom that being true. But, perhaps, she's too blinded by her goals and ambitions. Too caught up in wanting to try new things that she is forgetting the entire reason for engineering this program in the first place. "Why can't you see that my intentions are not corrupted? Why can't you accept that I _truly_ want to help you?"

"Because nobody really wants to help us!" he blurts out. "They just want to control us!"

Hermione recoils, considering his words with a completely open mind.

She begins to hear him clearly, pushes the clouds out of her mind to allow the reality of the situation to shine its rays upon her, illuminate her, help her understand exactly what it is that they are going through.

"Everyone just wants to fucking control us. With the marks, the trackers, the fucking potions, the meetings, the lectures, the glares we get from ministry workers when we so much as _walk_ around the atrium, the corridors, the elevators. They all either want to control us, or they simply hate us, or _both_."

It's impossible to deny the accuracy of Draco's statement. She experienced it herself today as they walked through Hogsmeade. The spiteful stares, the harsh whispers, even the fingers pointing at them. The world looks at this group at hates them—nothing less.

"I... I don't want to control you," she says meekly, feeling as though tonight, Draco will snatch the victory of the repartee.

"No. You're just contributing to the program that does."

Those words burn. Scorch her skin and seep into her bones. Her body grows hot with anger because she knows that their suffering is partly her fault.

She follows his sentence with a statement she rarely uses: "You're right."

"Come again?"

"You're right. You're absolutely right. Things were so different in the beginning, but now..." She's ashamed of herself. Ashamed and mortified that she let it get this far. "I shouldn't have let Aberfield do all those things to you. I should've said something. The trackers. The Draught of Peace. The militant means of controlling you. I should've done something. I stood there and watched Aberfield do that to you because I was scared and confused. And I felt devalued and helpless. But I still should've stopped him."

Draco stares at her, his eyes wide with bewilderment.

"But I also sense that deep down you want someone's help." She gulps, afraid that her next words will once again drive him away. But she leaps into the unknown anyway, praying that Draco will stick around long enough for them to talk a little longer, exchange air, feed one another's minds with insights into their own. "I saw it that day. When you got the tracker implanted. I saw it in your eyes. You wanted help."

"Granger—"

"And on the day that Aberfield cast you into the chair and tied ropes around your body. Stuffed your mouth with a rag and bound you to that chair. I saw the same look in your eyes then as well. You denied my help, but I know you wanted it—"

"Stop talking, please—"

"And every day during sixth year, when you'd walk the halls like a ghost, like a shadow of the proud boy you once were. The boy who would vie for the spot of top student against me, would tease me in the hallways for the way I look, would call me names and bully my friends and—dare I fucking say it—bring some excitement to my day. That boy disappeared when you took the mark. I wanted to help you then and I still want to help you now—"

"Shut your _mouth_ —"

"Because you all deserve someone to give a shit about you—"

"For fuck's sake, stop—"

"I can't stop! Can't you see that I really do care about _all_ of you—"

"Stop caring!" he exasperates, the tone in his voice frustrated and the volume dial turned louder. 

She's not surprised that he yelled. She expected it to happen, actually.

What she doesn't expect is for the old Draco to come back—the one filled with so much fury and illustrated with such menacing mannerisms that her skin crawls. His façade crumbles and transforms before her, and suddenly he's the same man he was all those times in the bathroom, in the corridors, in moments where—dare she thinks it—she was completely captivated by his chilling energy.

Hermione observes intently as his fingers twitch on his thigh, his shoulders roll back, his knee bounces, and he cracks his neck, as if the actions warm him up and bring out the bloodcurdling creature within him.

"No one is asking you to care," he growls at her. "You've done enough."

"Malfoy—"

"You want to see what you and your fucking program have done to us?"

Draco sticks his left arm out to display his mark. Beneath the plethora of tattoos painted over his skin, Hermione can still faintly make out the skull and snake design, taking up a large part of his forearm but no longer holding the prime position. As her eyes glare at his arm, she notices fresh scars from welts and blisters. Even in the dark room, Hermione's eyes are able to draw out a swollen section of his skin—the skin surrounding his mark.

It is not as chilling as Pansy's was that day, but it's still representative of some unknown force toying with his body.

"Want me to explain what's happening to you? Since you're just a fucking know-it-all, obsessed with having all of your questions answered without remorse? Should I explain to you in detail how a few months ago—right when that fucker injected us with trackers and poured shady potions down our throats—this mark started to burn again? Even started to move?"

"I—" Hermione starts, her mouth hanging agape.

"You know, I fill my body with drugs. With alcohol. With whatever I can to numb this pain. But no matter what, I still feel this fucking mark. Every day. I can drown in those things but nothing— _nothing_ —will ever end this pain. All I feel is _fucking_ agony."

She doesn't know what possesses her to do this—maybe it's her feet, which seem to have a mind of their own, or her heart, which practically jerks itself out of her chest in order to be close to him. Whatever force it is that causes her to do it, Hermione finds herself standing up and sauntering towards his bed. She sits on his left side between him and his pillow, staring at his arm, inspecting the scars, the mark, the tattoos. She can sense the way his body tenses when her knee brushes against his, and she finds herself reaching her hand out to touch his arm gently.

When her fingers reach the mark, she gasps lightly. She can feel the elevated skin, the tepid temperature of his mark, and the pulsing blood streaming through his arm. The presence of a sinister movement is completely palpable.

She leaps into the unknown yet again, tugging Draco's arm into her lap and rubbing her index finger against his skin.

"You once asked if I'd ever known what it felt like to watch something happen before my eyes that I wish I could've stopped. That if there wasn't some external power looming over me, controlling me, keeping me from doing the right thing, I would've put an end to a tragedy before it even started."

Her eyes lift to meet Draco's.

"This," she says, pointing to the part of his arm where his tracker was infused. "This is it for me. And I think..."

Hermione pauses, twisting her back away from him and bringing her left arm forward. Draco forces himself to look away, but Hermione charms him with her soft words to glance at the scar on her arm, just for a moment.

"I think _this_ is it for you."

The scar that Bellatrix left stings against Draco's eyes. He looks away.

"Don't—"

"Look at it."

"I can't—"

"Please."

Moving his head just inches at a time, Draco finally summons enough courage to look at the scar on her arm. It's faded, just like his, but he cringes at the way it is so horrifically etched into her skin. He squirms slightly, itching his neck and holding back bile.

"I can't get rid of this pain, either. It's there. Forever." She breathes in deeply, letting her thoughts roam free in the hopes that her shot, her intuition, her suspicion she's had since that day in the bathroom, is not in the dark, but rather holds more truth than any other conclusion in the world.

"Sometimes, I think about this day and what would've happened if someone stopped Bellatrix," she continues, her voice crumbling at the name of her assailant. "I think about Harry or Ron saving me in some heroic way before it happens. But in the end..." Hermione's voice floats off as their eyes connect, the stare turning deeper as she spills her innermost thoughts with him. "In the end, it's you who I really wish saved me. Because you were standing _right_ there."

Hermione swears his eyes are watering, like the moon when it is cast behind a rainstorm.

"And you just... looked away."

"Granger—"

"I wish you hadn't looked away. Just like you probably wish I hadn't when all those things happened to you."

He closes his eyes and twitches his neck, trying to occlude. But he can't—a fact that is confirmed by the way he groans in despair.

"Damnit," he whispers with a gentle voice, conjuring pebbles on her skin in the way his voice reverberates in the tense bubble around them.

When Hermione pulls her left arm back to rest at her side, she is met with an action she never dreamed Draco Malfoy would do for her. Something more outlandish than seducing her, dancing with her, whispering lovely, sensual things in her ears in a clandestine club.

Draco reaches for Hermione's left arm and lifts it to his mouth, placing his lips upon her scar and kissing it like it's the most precious thing in the world.

The soft pressure of his lips against her skin—against a part of her body that is more fragile and sensitive than any other—sends shockwaves through her arm and straight to her chest, and she feels his energy collide with her heart, and _oh_ , it collides with such magnitude and pressure and affection that she can barely maintain her breathing.

Her heart bursts forth, desperately vaulting over every obstacle to get to him.

Draco removes his lips from her skin and sets her arm down, his mouth open and his eyes wide with shock.

"Go to sleep, now," he whispers, staring forward, avoiding eye contact. His legs shift to the right, and the point of contact between their thighs disseminates.

Hermione stares at him, contemplating reaching forward and taking his cheek in her hand.

"Please," he begs. "Go to sleep, Granger."

She deduces that she's stirred enough trouble for the night, dug a deep enough hole that it will take a whole team of individuals to lift her out. Not wanting to push her luck, Hermione rises from Draco's bed and walks to her own. She dives under the covers, unable to look back at him; with her back facing his bed, Hermione lets out a shaky breath. And she hears Draco dip underneath his covers behind her.

Her mind reels. And he can somehow sense it, because in the next moment, he whispers once again, "Go to sleep."

She doesn't. She can't. How can she when her heart is racing this fast? When it feels like her blood won't stop churning and streaming? When the imprint of Draco's lips on her mark stings with both pleasure and trauma?

She can't sleep.

Neither can he.

They feel each other's heartbeats pulse through the floor and into their respective beds, and they feel it also through the invisible string tying their scars to one another.


	19. Chapter 19

**tw: drug use, mention of relapse and drug overdose, and detailed description of cocaine**

Detoxing has always been difficult for Draco.

It’s the unpredictability, the forfeiture of dopamine, and the tentative sense that he is going to crash and burn any second. Like the wheel that steers his life is spinning uncontrollably, and he can’t seem to grip it tight enough to prevent the leather binding from dangerously gliding through his fingers. Like there’s simply no point to living if he lacks the chemical method to producing happiness—not even that, but if he simply lacks comfort and ease.

That’s all he really needs. Something to bring him ease, to alleviate the pain and exhaustion coiling like vines within his body, wrapping around his muscles, bones, nerves, and constricting his insides to the point that he feels like he’s suffocating.

Draco fears detoxing because he fears death itself. He fears that his body will shut down and wither away into a puddle of everything that he has brought upon himself.

Death Eater. Cocaine addict. Fucking asshole.

He fears the pain of it all, the inevitable torture that comes with relinquishing the high.

Because he’s been through too much agony already—enough to last a lifetime and more—and that was _before_ he became a fucking addict. And he thought that the drugs were supposed to thwart that agony, numb it, make it all fade away with each line he sniffed. But they don’t. The drugs give him a fleeting moment, ephemeral like the wind, temporary like the flash of lightning and crash of thunder, and in that one blissful period time, the pain secedes to the drugs, the high, the euphoria, the effervescent sensations and the tantalizing whispers of the air around him. And then it departs all too quickly, and he’s alone again. Shaking. Unable to breathe from his fucking anxiety.

Depressed. Fucking depressed.

So, the detox doesn’t work. It never does, really. It’s too dangerous, too real, too emotionally draining for Draco to wrap his mind around.

_Fucking typical._

He’s tried before, but always failed.

Because he’s weak. He’s fucking weak. And that’s the only reason. He’s spineless and pathetic and weak-willed and so motherfucking brittle.

Or, at least, that’s the reason his mind tells him. It’s like a broken record, an endless symphony of his countless failures echoing in an acoustically pristine amphitheater. The resonance crashes into and harasses his already drained mind.

He can’t save anyone. Can’t do one good thing for others. 

Not his friends, who all followed in his destructive footsteps that fateful day sixth year. Draco sealed his destiny a few weeks before carrying out that motherfucker's task with that first sniff of cocaine. And the others were like his shadow, dawdling near his footsteps and chasing the same escape.

He can’t save his mother, who withers away in the manor like a dying flower with her own personal vices, each one of her beautiful petals feathering to the ground and dissolving upon contact, never to be restored again.

And he couldn’t save Granger, writhing on the floor of his father’s drawing room, begging for her life as his cracked aunt used both her teeth and a dagger to slice her skin open, to lure blood like her teeth were fucking iron-deficient, and to instill such fear in Granger’s eyes that she lay petrified and unmoving on the floor, her eyes watering and her mouth hanging open like she was a moment away from death—

_No. No, no, no, no, no._

Haunt is an understatement. That fucking memory brings him physical pain.

Draco felt her skin flutter when he pressed his lips to her scar just a few hours ago, but there shouldn’t have been a _fucking_ scar to kiss in the first place.

Insomnia holds him prisoner. Draco cinches his eyes shut, entreating the gods, Merlin, fucking whoever is out there to bring him sleep.

He uses Granger’s soft breathing beside him as a mechanism for reaching his peace. Shuts his eyes and takes in the light, airy sound of her exhales, sweet and warm and filled with such benevolence that he would drown in them if possible—overdose on them, even.

_What a fucked-up thought that is_ , Draco thinks to himself as he rolls to face the opposite wall. _I’m not going to overdose on fucking Granger of all things._

Draco begs for sleep like he begs for other things in his life—voraciously and pitifully.

-

Hermione wakens to his voice, raspy and low and stamped with the subtlety of dawn.

“Granger.”

Her eyes flutter open slowly, the sight of black fading behind the brightness of the room as she readjusts to the sun peeking through the window and striking her face at the perfect angle. Lying on her right shoulder and facing Draco’s bed, Hermione is surprised to find Draco kneeling next to her bed holding a small, tan envelope in his hand.

“Here.”

Draco presents the letter, and Hermione sees her name inscribed into the center of the envelope in dainty cursive. She sits up slowly, pushing the duvet off of her body and swerving her legs off the bed.

“What’s this?” she asks, rubbing her eye with one palm and taking the letter in her other hand.

Finding himself too close to her, Draco stands and paces a few steps backwards, his legs bumping against the side of his bed in the process.

“Dunno. An owl showed up a few minutes ago pecking at the window. Bloody woke me up.”

Hermione purses her lips and fiddles with the letter in her hand, turning it up and down to inspect the delicate parchment further. “Sorry about that,” she whispers, and a covert smile slips across her face at the thought of Draco answering her owl, opening the window to greet the bird, having to read her name on the parchment and then subsequently decide how to wake her up. She doesn’t know why it brings her delight, but she cannot deny the rapture of glee exploding in her heart.

She waits for a response to her apology but never receives one. Instead, Draco lifts his hand to scratch the back of his head, attempting to tame his bed-soaked hair with his fingers. Hermione takes a moment to study his face—the bags under his eyes are plum-colored and hollow with the proof of a terrible night’s sleep, and his teeth sporadically drag across his cherry lips as if to pass the time.

And of course, she can’t help but be amazed by his magnificent tattoos, poking out of the ends of his black t-shirt and dyeing his skin with the intricacies and idiosyncrasies that make him who he is. She spots a black snake spiraling around his right bicep, its tail resting at the top of his forearm, body winding around his upper arm, and head hidden below the sleeve of his shirt. Lost in the design as she studies the details of the scales, Hermione bites her lower lip. She forgets about the letter in her hand for that moment.

Draco clears his throats. “Want some… tea?”

Hermione’s eyes lift to meet his, and she gently inhales as if to guide herself back from her daydreams. Lifting her legs from the floor to cross them over one another upon the bed, Hermione leans her elbows against her thighs and nods. “Yes, thanks.”

The edge of Draco’s lips lifts in a trying smile, and he saunters past her bed and out of the room, leaving the door somewhat open in the process.

Hermione reverts her concentration to the letter in her hand. She twirls it over to lift the seal and subsequently removes a small piece of paper from the envelope.

Inspecting the handwriting—cursive, refined, and neat against the blank paper—Hermione begins to read:

_Hermione,_

_I hate to interrupt your holiday with friends, but as Crookshanks’ sitter, I feel compelled to write this letter to you! I want to first inform you that your charms around the apartment are working brilliantly. Crookshanks’ bowls fill without flaw at his mealtimes, and I’ve taken care of all the other necessary chores around your home._

_You should know, however, that at night, Crookshanks tends to mewl quite loudly. He’s receptive to my cuddles, but I suspect what he really wants is his mother back home._

_Might you be able to come home for a few days to be with him? I’ve tried my best to cheer him up with his toys and treats, but I suspect the true cause of his sadness is that you are not here with him. I know you mentioned that ever since you reunited after the war, he’s been quite attached to you._

_Hope all has been well on your holiday._

_Cho._

It was by some stroke of luck—dare she say it, fate—that Cho Chang resided in the same apartment complex as Hermione in central London. They’d stumbled upon one another by accident in the foyer of the building one summer day a year after parting from Hogwarts. She was accompanied by her muggle fiancé who clearly knew about her magical abilities, as his first question to Hermione was, _Oh! Did you also go to the school for wizards? What’s your favorite spell? Go on—let’s see something!_

Cho cried when she hugged Hermione that day, likely as a manifestation and reminder of their tumultuous yet deep relationship from the past. Cho had been an important part of Dumbledore’s Army and a key figure in the war, so while tears are often hard to come by for Hermione, she too admittedly let a salty drop slip from her eye that day.

She hadn’t seen her friends from Hogwarts in months. With the knowledge that Cho would be living in the same complex as her, Hermione felt a source of safety now present in her life.

Not many things cause Hermione to cry. The news of Crookshanks, though, does summon a tear from her eye. It breaks Hermione’s heart, tearing it through the slits of her ribs and slicing it into pieces. After the war, she’d never left Crookshanks alone for more than a day at a time, fully intent on reminding him that she wasn’t abandoning him again, and that their extensive time apart was now over.

She has to go back for him.

In a way, she has to go back for herself, too.

Dropping the letter in her lap and tucking her hair behind her ears, Hermione ruminates over what she will say to everyone. While her heart unquestionably belongs to her companion, her kneazle, her perpetual friend, it also has found a home here, in this cramped apartment and with an unseemly group of friends.

Her thoughts are interrupted by the door swinging open. Draco enters the room while balancing two cups of tea in one hand, his long fingers wrapped through both handles of the mugs. Kicking the door half-shut with his foot, Draco approaches Hermione and hands her the red and gold mug.

Not wanting him to notice her single tear, Hermione briskly wipes her cheek and smiles.

“Thank you,” she says, accepting her new mug—the testament to her inclusion in the group.

Draco nods and sits on the side of his bed, taking a sip of his own drink and licking the remaining liquid from his lips. “Everything alright?” he asks, extending his mug in her direction to indicate the subject of his question.

Hermione takes a sip of her tea. The taste of honey explodes in her mouth, coating her tastebuds with satisfaction.

“It’s Cho,” she starts, lifting the letter for a brief moment and then dropping it into her lap yet again. “She’s my neighbor, actually. And I’ve asked her to watch Crookshanks while I’m away.”

Subtly, and while biting the inside of his cheek, Draco flexes his right foot and rolls his ankle—the same ankle that Crookshanks naughtily clawed on that day in the Great Hall.

_Wonderful. I should add that moment to the Patronus memory bank, right next to punching him._

“She says that he’s been crying quite a bit since I’ve been gone,” Hermione continues, shifting in the bed to properly face Draco. “She thinks that I should return for a few days to be with him.”

Draco gulps, masking his facial response with another swig of his drink. It’s a longer sip, and his eyes ultimately find themselves glued to the ceiling as he tips his head back to allow the tea to roll down his throat. When he finally drops his head and meets Hermione’s eyes, Draco takes a deep breath through his nostrils, the exhale leaving his lips quietly.

And his fingers twitch against the porcelain mug, tapping the cup with anxiety.

Hermione awaits a response, but once again, she doesn’t receive one from him.

It’s as if silence defines their relationship and marks the method of their communication. Yet also, in the moments when their repartee is vivacious and heated, their bond is just as strong, just as right, just as accurate of a testament to how they view one another.

She tries to use his eyes to unearth his actual feelings. But the silver augment is dulled and empty, as if both the withdrawal and the prospect of her leaving drains him of any energy.

Hermione opens her mouth again. “I think I should go back for a few days. Give you all some space.”

Draco flares his nostrils and swipes his thumb against the tip of his nose, sniffing as his digit passes across his skin. “Right,” he starts, his voice lower and tainted with exasperation, “You should do that, then.”

Another sip of her tea. “I’ll be going in a moment, then.”

Another sip of his tea. “Well, the others are outside if you’d like to say goodbye.”

Although it’s not the response she desired, it is close to the one she expected.

“Right,” Hermione sighs, “I’ll go say goodbye.”

As she rises from the bed and saunters to the door, Hermione detects Draco shifting in his bed. Before stepping outside, she twists her head ever so slightly to the right, watching as Draco presses his back against his headboard and pulls his knees up halfway to his chest. He drinks his tea and gazes out the window, avoiding eye contact, confrontation, and desertion.

Wishing to not cause more of a rift, Hermione dips her hand into the space between the door and the frame and steps into the living room.

She finds the others configured in a similar seating arrangement as yesterday morning, with Pansy and Theo on the couch against their shared wall, and Daphne, Blaise, and Adrian resting on the other. Upon hearing Hermione exit, they all glance in her direction and greet her with smiles defined by the promise and excitement of the new day.

“Morning Granger,” Pansy says with a neutral grin. “Sleep alright?”

“Yes, thanks,” Hermione responds, situating herself on the arm of the couch just next to Pansy.

“Good, because we’ve got quite the day planned,” Theo starts, patting his hand against Pansy’s bare knee. “Boxing Day sales are looking quite promising, and there are also supposed to be discounted drinks at the Three Broomsticks today. Fancy a few butterbeers, Granger?”

Hermione chest lifts with a deep breath as she gasps for a sliver of courage.

“That sounds really wonderful,” she starts, her fingers fidgeting in her lap, “But I unfortunately have to head back home for a few days.”

Upon the news, the expressions of the Slytherins sink. Their once lively eyes fall victim to desolation and loss as they consider Hermione’s absence.

She notices it especially in Adrian. There is something off about him today.

His typically vivacious eyes harbor the same hollow and heavy appearance as Draco’s did, like they’ve recessed into their sockets without remorse. And his usually cheery and upbeat disposition is replaced with something more exhausted and shattered—the pressure of his detox, the detox he is currently undergoing with Draco.

Daphne disturbs Hermione’s assessment of Adrian’s condition with a soft, “Why?” She tilts her head, stirring such guilt in Hermione that she could suffocate on Daphne’s saccharine disposition—sugar in her veins, honey in her heart, and licorice upon her bones.

“I’ve just received a letter from my neighbor about Crookshanks. She thinks I need to return home for a few days to take care of him. Apparently, he’s been mewling quite a bit.”

Blaise shifts off of the back of the couch and leans his elbows upon his thighs. “Of course. Your poor kneazle—we’ve kept you for a few days too long, haven’t we?”

Hermione chuckles. “It’s no worries, really. I’ve got charms set up around the apartment to accommodate his needs when I'm away. He’s quite independent as well—er, so I thought.”

“Clever witch you are,” Theo interjects, nodding his head and tapping his free fingers against the back of the couch. “We understand if you need to head back home to take care of that lovely kneazle for some time.”

“Is everything else okay?” Daphne asks, and Hermione senses that Daphne knows something, that her eyes are flushed with the memory of Draco kissing her scar last night, their knees touching, and their hearts beating in synchronous movements at their proximity.

But no, she can't possibly know. It's just Daphne being as sweet as ever. 

“Everything is fine,” Hermione responds, but of course it’s not. Of course her mind is reeling. Of course she’s trapped in a vacuum where all she can bloody think about is him.

No, everything isn’t fine.

Hermione’s heart, gut, mind—they all gravitate towards Draco. The invisible string morphs into a rubber band that tugs and constricts, tugs and constricts, tugs and constricts, and Hermione can’t help but give into the pull, succumb to the thrill of being jerked over and over again, and dance with something so intriguing that the head rushes which she undergoes make all those years of being a fucking prude worth it.

In those moments with Draco, she’s like a match, setting him aflame with everything he’s tried so hard to rebuke.

And she fucking enjoys it. As much as it confuses her, Hermione cannot help but be enraptured by their intricate and dense relationship.

“Well, you’ll come back, right?” Pansy asks.

Hermione smiles at the group. “I’ll come back. Of course. Maybe even with Crookshanks. He’s got to try out his new bed sometime.”

That comment harvests scattered chuckles from the group.

“I just need a few days,” Hermione admits. “There’s a bit of work I need to get done as well.”

“We understand,” Blaise responds. “You take your time.”

With a final sip of her tea, Hermione places her empty mug on her lap and offers yet another reassuring smile. “I should get going, then. The sooner I get back to that cat, the sooner he’ll be a little less anxious.”

“Do you need anything?” Pansy offers, her lips warping into a smirk as she delivers her next question, soaked in friendly cheekiness. “How about a change of clothes?”

Hermione glances down at her skimpy pajamas—a measly t-shirt and shorts—and chuckles. “I could just transfigure the clothes. You’ve already been quite generous with your wardrobe.”

Pansy winks. “Happy to help.”

“Oh, Merlin! That reminds me!” Daphne squeals, flexing her hands in the air as if she’s discovered something of immense value. “Hermione, why don’t you join us again on New Year’s Eve, yeah? It’s probably the most wonderful night of the year at Amortentia. Titus has the venue decorated so beautifully, and everyone is supposed to dress in one of four colors—black, white, silver, or gold. It's so well organized. You should see the way the lights reflect off of the dresses. It’s such a blast! Would that be a suitable time for you to join us again?”

Hermione considers the possibilities of the evening, recalling Halloween and the night before Christmas Eve. Admittedly, she’d loved her times at Amortentia, even though they’d been defined by her rowdy encounters with Draco.

Merlin help her—she craves more.

“Absolutely,” Hermione responds. “I’ll come back then.” Shifting off of the couch and stepping towards the kitchen, she lifts her mug in the air and adds, “I’ll just wash this quickly and head out.”

As if life has been breathed back into him, Adrian stands and saunters towards Hermione. “No worries, Granger. I’ll take care of that.” He snatches the mug from her hand and winks. “You go home and see that kneazle of yours.”

That twinkle of his eyes haunts her. And while Hermione snaps her fingers and transfigures her pajamas into street clothes in the bathroom moments later, she can’t help but replay the half-hearted and soft wink on Adrian’s face in her mind. The wink, laced with something other than the usual glee he so effortlessly projects. It had been unnatural, forced upon his face as a means of maintaining a façade and masking the irrefutable pain brought on by the unforgiving properties of the detox.

After she changes her clothes from the loose pajamas into a pair of jeans and a sweater, she makes her way out of the bathroom. A realization then settles upon her—her wand is still in Draco’s room, resting atop the tin of mince pies on the nightstand.

Hermione sighs, preparing herself to face him again. She pushes the door open and steps inside the room, finding Draco in the same position on his bed as before. His long fingers twirl in the air to produce petty magic, little red sparks emitting from his pale digits in an array of geometric shapes. He looks up at Hermione for a moment, barely produces a half-smile, and then continues to fiddle with the magic.

Cautiously stepping through the room towards the nightstand, Hermione retrieves the tin of mince pies and her wand. 

And as her eyes briefly skim to the left, she sees a small bag of cocaine resting in plain sight on Draco’s nightstand.

_Fuck._

Must she always feel so inclined to overstep her boundaries? Honestly, Hermione wants nothing more than to reach forward, snatch that bag of cocaine from his desk, and make it vanish into thin air. But the fear of transgressing the confines he’s set, which would undoubtedly lead to him shutting down more, seems inconducive.

So, Hermione turns to depart. And Draco still does not speak to her.

_Fine. I’ll say something._

“I’ll be back on New Year’s Eve.”

Draco’s magic ceases for a moment as the slender fingers of his once active hand drop to wrap around his mug, already held up by his left hand.

Hermione tries again.

“Thank you for the pies.”

He nods plainly, exhaustion clouding every part of his being.

Curse her for wanting to push more, wanting to say thank you for other things he’s done, wanting to hug him, hold him, touch him one more time. Wanting to keep him from returning to the drugs on his desk.

Instead, she gulps and says, “Take care, Malfoy.”

Her eyes search for his. _Please_ , she thinks, _just look at me. For a moment._

Nothing. Draco simply cannot bring himself to watch her leave.

Defeated, Hermione turns and exits the room, shutting the door and leaving Draco in darkness.

Several minutes pass where he soaks in silence, the only noise coming from his fingernails tapping against the mug. He lets the sound consume his mind and his thoughts because his brain won’t stop turning and spewing the thoughts he’s been trying for days to rebuke.

He doesn’t need it. He doesn’t need it. He doesn’t need the cocaine.

He _might_ need it.

Suddenly, the door opens, and Draco watches as Daphne sneaks through the opening.

“Are you alright?” she asks, casually approaching his bed and sitting on the edge.

“Did she leave?” Draco asks, his tone bordering on impatience.

Daphne sighs and nods, reaching forward and placing her hand upon his. She rubs her thumb against the back of his palm, hoping to alleviate his festering anger.

Knocking his head against the headboard, Draco huffs with exasperation.

“She made it all a little easier.”

Daphne’s heart can barely stand seeing Draco in this state.

“She made it easier for all of us, darling. But you, especially. I know.”

Draco inhales through his nose, wishing that the air around him would purify him. Wishing that the remnants of Granger in this room would seep into his bloodstream to make him feel warm again.

With her hand atop his, Daphne can feel Draco’s veins contort with stress and anxiousness.

“She was actually… helping,” Draco whispers, but he immediately hates that it comes out of his mouth. Hates to admit that she dispelled some of the anxiety in him.

Bile rises in his throat. Fuck that word— _help_.

“Draco—”

Everything inside of him is suddenly replaced with anger. 

“Of course she fucking left. Of course she did. Because why would she want to stay here with us? Why, when her life is so fucking perfect, would she want to ruin it with the things we do?”

Daphne furrows her eyebrows, realizing what is about to happen.

He’s about to self-destruct, project his anger, _relapse._

“Draco, you know that’s not how she feels—”

“It’s how everyone else feels!” he interrupts, rolling his eyes. “What makes her any different?”

Daphne glares at him. “You know what makes her different.”

“Do I?” he seethes, cracking his knuckles with his fingers.

Suddenly, the detox seems all too unimportant. The reason for trying to stay clean and healthy evaporates into thin air. And the cocaine looks all too enticing.

“I can’t do it anymore.”

Swinging his legs off of the bed, Draco grabs the bag of cocaine and tugs the seal open. He kneels before his nightstand and pours some of the powder out onto the wood. Pulling the drawer of his stand wide open, he removes a card and a banknote, and he goes through the motions of creating those beautiful white lines. He licks his lips in anticipation of the head rush, the high, the feeling of normalcy—

“Wait, don’t—”

“Don’t argue with me,” Draco snaps, separating the powder into three adjacent lines. He rolls the banknote in a tight coil, takes a deep breath, lines the paper with the cocaine, and snorts all three lines in a row, each one more glorious than the last.

_Thank Merlin._

He turns on his heels and leans his back against the nightstand, holding the card between his index and middle finger. Daphne stares at him, tears swelling in her eyes as she realizes how she could have done more. Could have said more. Could have stopped him.

“Don’t judge me, Daph,” Draco whispers, swiping his fingers against the edge of the card, collecting the remnants of the cocaine, and rubbing it into his gums.

Daphne shakes her head, dropping to the ground and leaning against his bed, their legs crossing in a ‘t’ shape.

“I will never judge you,” she whispers. “I just want to protect you.”

Draco presses his teeth against one another and reaches for the wand under his pillow. “Don’t waste your energy on me. I’ve got nothing to detox for now.”

He places the hawthorn to his forehead and exhales.

“ _Accelero momentum_.”

And under Daphne’s breath, she whispers, “Yourself. You can detox for yourself.”

But Draco can’t hear her, because he’s too busy letting the cocaine seep into his walls and infiltrate his bloodstream, colonize him yet again, as if to say, _You’re nobody else’s but mine._

_And you can kiss that mudblood goodbye, because you’re nobody else’s but mine._

-

Hermione apparates back to her apartment, emerging from the air in a twisted white mist and landing on her feet in the middle of her living room.

And almost immediately, as if he senses her presence, Crookshanks mewls from the room behind her.

Upon hearing the sound, Hermione places the tin of mince pies and wand on the coffee table in front of her, spinning around and pacing towards the door to her bedroom. She barely steps into the threshold when her kneazle leaps off of her bed and greets her with adoration, threading through her legs and rubbing his orange fur onto her black jeans. He leaves traces of his hair on the denim, as if to beg her to stay forever.

Heart pounding and hands shaking with anticipation, Hermione bends down and lifts Crookshanks towards her chest, flipping him onto his back so that he lies in her comforting arms like a baby. He stretches his paws forth and purrs as Hermione tickles his fluffy stomach and subsequently kisses his nose.

It’s the warmth of his fur and the silky sounds of his purrs that fetch relief in her heart. Crookshanks sings in her arms like an angel, his sounds practically seeping through her skin and perforating her aching heart. Hermione feels relieved to be back home yet regretful that she ever left him alone.

Had she known the implications of leaving him, she wouldn’t have ever done it in the first place.

It was Molly Weasley who housed Crookshanks during the war. She used to tell Hermione about how much Crookshanks would cry at night, and no matter how much motherly love Molly gifted to Crookshanks, he was never fully content.

Even the bloody kneazle harbored trauma from the war. How could she so plainly abandon him yet again?

“Sorry, darling,” Hermione whispers into his crown, and she subsequently kisses him five times on the top of his head. “You’ll come with me next time.”

As she turns on her heels to settle in the living room, Hermione glances at the floor of her kitchenette to the left where Crookshanks’ food and water bowl reside. Confirming that the bowls are filled to the brim with his food and water, Hermione sighs, relieved that her refilling charms had worked on schedule.

She drops to the couch and lies horizontally, her legs swinging over the side and her feet resting upon the arm of the chair. Coaxing Crookshanks to lie on her chest, Hermione maneuvers his body so that his head faces hers—so that she can stare into those beady and adorable eyes for the rest of the day. His tail falls up and down with pleasure, sporadically patting against her lower stomach as a sign of delight. And he purrs some more, a testament to her homecoming.

She missed him—wished she hadn’t abandoned him.

Yet a similar feeling stirs within her conscience as she wonders how the Slytherins are handling her departure.

Hermione knows that she needs a few days to collect her thoughts, understand what is happening between her and members of that group, and just fucking breathe normally. Breathe without feeling like she’ll suffocate on insinuations and impulsive actions and silver eyes that watch her with passion and rage… Can’t he just indicate which one he truly feels? Because Hermione’s mind won’t stop spiraling, won’t cease its quest to uncover the traits and anecdotes which define Draco Malfoy. His tattoos, his scars, his mannerisms, his fucking eyes.

A break. She needs a break. A moment to collect her thoughts.

It’s not that she is ungrateful or exhausted by the routine of the Slytherins. In fact, she finds an immense amount of pleasure being with them in that apartment—all of them, each in individual ways.

Ultimately, Hermione feels tugged between these two worlds—the one she has always known, and the one she is dying to explore further.

Her eyes travel to her bookshelf past her left shoulder, stacked with volumes of tomes on topics she considers interesting and worthwhile. Nothing there—no book or periodical or large volume—answers her plentiful questions about drugs. About cocaine. About addiction.

Sometimes, Hermione wishes she could just flick her wand in the air and have all the information in the world susceptible to her fingertips and eyes. She’d soak in literature and material and reports if she could. Drown in paper that opens her up to the subjects of life which she has yet to explore.

But magic is not always that straightforward or gracious. Madam Pince said that to her once while she studied in the library. It simply cannot answer all of life’s questions and it cannot fix all of life’s problems.

A trip to the public library would do her some good. Hermione could search for books, articles, or any other resource that would answer her relentless questions.

But as of now, as she peers down at Crookshanks lying so sweetly on her chest, his tail swiping across her sweater like a pendulum and his tongue hanging just outside his mouth, Hermione decides to postpone the trip. To instead lie with her kneazle and remind him how much she adores him with vocal affirmations, occasional rubs, and love soaked kisses.

The library will be there. But for now, at this moment, Crookshanks needs her.

In a way, she needs him too.

-

_Cocaine is a powerfully addictive stimulant drug made from the coca plant, indigenous to South America. There are several methods for ingesting the drug, the most common being to snort the fine, white powder through the nose or to rub it upon one’s gums. Two other methods include dissolving it to be injected directly into the bloodstream by means of a needle or smoking it after it has been processed into a rock crystal…_

_The drug works by increasing the level of dopamine in one’s brain. This is the principal reason for the susceptible addiction that comes with overusing the drug. Frequent cocaine consumers rely on the chemically induced levels of dopamine which the drug produces, thus creating a cycle of frequent and strong doses…_

_There are short-term and long-term effects of sustained cocaine use. Short-term effects include high levels of energy, alertness, hypersensitivity to sight, touch, taste, and sound, unpredictable behavior, nausea, unsteady heartbeat, muscle twitches, and restlessness, among others…_

Hermione’s breath hitches as her eyes glance over the short-term effects of cocaine use, all of which sound too familiar.

Her curiosity had won out in the afternoon. Having soaked up all of her preliminary love, Crookshanks had returned to his spot at the base of the couch, his paws clawing and tugging at the basketweave rug on the hardwood floors. She’d entertained him by casting a lumos from the tip of her wand and pointing the light at different areas around the apartment. Crookshanks darted around the space, desperate to catch the light in his paws. Overtime, he’d grown wearied by the game and plopped onto the rug for one of his thrice-daily naps.

And as Hermione tapped her fingers on her stomach, her mind constantly ruminating over the same questions, she decided that a quick trip to the library would be acceptable.

She sits in the corner of the public library at one of six large tables, researching the drug on one of the muggle computers. Wholly unfamiliar with the new technology but adamantly working her way through the equipment, Hermione scrolls through a webpage that details the complexities of cocaine. With her head down and her actions clandestine, Hermione bites her lower lip as she cautiously inspects her surroundings.

There aren’t many people in the library today, and she assumes it’s because of the shopping holiday. Additionally, the configuration of the computers—four to a table, all nestled on their own sides—effectively masks her potentially improper research. Were someone to stumble by and witness what she is researching, they might come to the wrong idea of her intentions. 

It’s why she’s chosen to sit in the corner, as mysterious and foreboding as it might look.

She resolves to erase the memory of the computer once she’s done… if she can navigate her way around that.

How difficult can it be, really?

The short-term effects which she reads about sound exactly like how Draco described them to her that day in the bathroom. Not only that, but they sound exactly like what she experienced.

The high levels of energy, the hypersensitivity to sensations, the unpredictable behavior—

_Merlin_ , she thinks to herself, _that explains the impulsive decisions I made that night._

It certainly could’ve been the drugs, but she considers that it also could’ve been something deeper.

Brushing that thought aside, Hermione continues scrolling down the webpage, using the oval mouse to maneuver her way through the text. The arrow lands upon the next heading, and she continues to read.

_Withdrawal symptoms include fatigue_ —

Draco and Adrian.

— _increased appetite_ —

Adrian, yesterday at the Shrieking Shack.

— _insomnia_ —

Draco, unable to sleep.

She could hear him toss and turn in the night. Hermione knows he's not sleeping. 

Her eyes continue further down, falling upon the subsequent heading. It sticks out in black, bold letters, maximized in comparison to the other sections.

_Cocaine Overdose: What to Do If a Loved One—_

Her hand lifts from the mouse impulsively. The words stare her in the face like little leviathans, baiting her with fear and anxiety.

A heavy pressure takes hold of her mind, then her chest, then her arms, and she feels like she can’t move because she’s gazing at the word that she feared coming across: overdose.

But the glare of the computer screen beckons her to continue reading.

_An overdose occurs when a person consumes too much of the drug. This can lead to very serious effects such as difficulty breathing, high body temperatures, hallucinations, anxiety, seizures, strokes, vomiting, heart attacks, and even death. The risks are increased when one mixes cocaine with other substances, such as different drugs or alcohol..._

_If someone is having a seizure, do not forcibly restrain the individual. Instead, they should be positioned on their side, and all objects and potential threats around them should be removed immediately. Cold compresses on their body, particularly on their forehead, neck, and wrists, will help reduce body temperature..._

_Ideally, one should contact emergency services if they witness someone experiencing an overdose. Restoring blood flow to the heart and brain is typically the first step, but there are a range of medications and fluids that can be administered by hospitals that can reverse the effects of the overdose—_

Reading further proves too difficult. Because now she’s scared and confused.

But she’s informed and conscious as well.

The arrow guided by the mouse glides to the red ‘x’ on the corner of the webpage, and when her index finger clicks down on the mouse, the webpage closes, leaving her to stare at the landscape background—tumbling hills against a pure, blue sky. Examining her surroundings one more time, Hermione discreetly removes her wand from inside her sleeve and aims it at the computer. 

Admittedly, she doesn’t know how to clear the history of her searches. Her fascination yet ignorance of muggle technology manifests itself the moment she shrugs, waves her wand, and mutters, “ _Deletrius_.”

A mistake. Rather than the search history being deleted, the colossal computer itself vanishes into thin air. Startled, Hermione jumps back in her seat and gasps, yet again inspecting her surroundings to ensure that nobody saw her.

She’s lucky that the few library goers are all quite focused on their work, because none of them seem to notice that a whole computer has just disappeared in a cloud of white smoke.

“Shit!” she mutters, and then she’s reaching for her coat on the back of the chair and sheathing her body with it, her arms frantically slipping through the sleeves. She scurries towards the exit, nodding plainly at the old man behind the welcome desk. He returns a kind smile, which soothes Hermione’s nerves because—fucking hell, she’s just fucking sent one of his computers into the ether world.

As Hermione pushes the doors of the library open and steps out into the brisk wind of a December day, she thinks about how the wind hits her face with ferocity and purpose. While she undoubtedly feels it knock against her face, she recognizes that it’s just not as strong of a sensation as when she was riding the high of her cocaine-induced evening.

She’d by lying if she said that she didn’t want to try again. Feel everything around her so clearly. Experience bliss and excitement with a group she trusts.

Maybe, once more, she could do it. With the proper knowledge of risks in her mind, she could at least make a completely informed decision.

And then the wind upon her face would feel more like a wave of bliss crashing over her, and Draco’s hands… they could feel like a rip of euphoria through her body.

-

It appears, as Hermione lies in her bed later that night with Crookshanks draped between her arms, that the tug on the invisible string persists.

Her chest tightens and constricts as if being tugged by that cord, and so Hermione rolls onto her back to find the air she seems to be lacking. But when she inhales through her nose, breathing in the scent of the room, she realizes that the air is not as satisfying, not as satiating, and not as pleasurable as the ambiance in that shabby yet homey apartment.

It’s the lack of company, and a mint deficiency.

Rolling her head to the right, Hermione expects to see Draco lying on a bed next to her. But she’s met with a bare wall, impenetrable and obstructive. Like a projector displaying her clandestinely desired location, Hermione’s mind fashions the image of Draco lying in a bed next to her, his chest lifting up and down with every sweet breath that passes his lips and his arms impulsively and occasionally tugging the covers further over his chest.

It’s those little mannerisms that say everything about him. The miniscule moments where he reveals something about himself. He breathes like his chest is begging him to—like he’s forgotten how to do so properly and has to relearn. And he grips the ends of his covers like they’re his only method of protection when the unpredictability of the night arrives. His walls fall when vulnerability slips its way into her vision.

And if she could just stare into those silver eyes again, inspect his tattoos with purpose, uncover just a little bit more about him, then maybe she could penetrate that fortification entirely. Take a drill to the bricks and pierce through his defenses. If she could just touch him—

Crookshanks shifts slightly out of Hermione’s arms and settles a foot away from her.

She realizes that she’s holding her breath.

_Breathe out._

She does, and what comes out is not her breath, but instead it is the last remaining trace of him.

Because the part of her skin that he kissed—her scar, pale and raised slightly upon her forearm—grows dry again, the trace of his lips evaporating like it was never there in the first place.

But his lips were there. She didn’t imagine anything about that night, that interaction, that astonishing moment.

Draco kissed her scar.

Nobody had ever done something remotely like that for her.

Once, during her eighth year, Ron was there to clean her scar when it unexpectedly began to bleed. He applied a damp rag against her sensitive skin and told her that everything would be alright.

And ever since that day in the manor, Harry would tread ever so carefully around Hermione’s arm, careful not to grip her too tightly or accidentally brush past her left forearm. She felt like porcelain around him.

She’s strong. Very strong. And Harry knows that. And Hermione knows that Harry knows that. It’s just that he would do anything to protect her after everything she did for him. And so he was always careful when touching Hermione.

But Draco Malfoy had put his lips on her skin and kissed the poison, the memory, the pain. He sucked out the agony and inhaled it for himself.

So while the image of him leaning over to kiss her scar remains engrained in her memory, Hermione can’t help but feel the physical remnants of his touch slip away with every second she is not near him.

Draco feels it too.

He lies awake at night, his heart practically ripping out of his chest, simply because he feels her slipping away.

But he shouldn’t feel so weak. He’s returned to the drugs. His body is working with the chemicals to generate a fog, a daze, a murky cloud around his darkest desires, shoved deep into his subconscious.

So how the _fuck_ is it that this thin string is able to penetrate that fog so easily?

The drugs were supposed to… hinder these fucking feelings…

Yet they seem to have doubled— _tripled_ the secretive emotions.

_You did this to yourself_ is all that echoes in his mind.

_I know_ , he responds silently. _I fucking know._

He drowns himself in loathsome self-pity, letting the voice in his mind chastise his actions, his mistakes, his whole being. Because he could have been stronger. He could have said no. He could have just walked through life without the need to indulge.

But he was fucking weak back then. And he’s still weak, now.

Draco couldn’t remember what it was like to naturally produce dopamine in his brain until he’d detoxed around her. Until he’d handed her a tin of mince pies, helped her place a star on a fir tree, and kissed the scar on her forearm.

And now that she’s gone, and there’s no skin to worship, no small amounts of concealed yet discernable instances of affection to offer, and no possible way to achieve fulfillment, there’s simply no reason, motivation, or purpose to detox.

_If not for her, then for who?_

Draco closes his eyes.

_For myself?_

_Hah! You’re too fucking weak. I’ll be seeing you bright and early in the morning. I’m eager to colonize your body yet again._

In time, sleep replaces Draco’s destructive thoughts, but the release is still only temporary. And when he rises in the morning and makes tea for one instead of two, Draco will undoubtedly find himself victim once again to the cruel reality of his life and the constant basis of his seemingly everlasting addiction.

His fear of pain, abandonment, and death.

Death, which looms over him as an unavoidable part of his life—of all life.

It just so happens that he is closer to it than others.

Can she sense that reality? Does she know how close he is to letting the sweet release of nothingness hold him hostage, torture him, and then bring his beating heart, his blood flow, and the transmission of emotions to an indefinite halt?

It’s all too hard.

Draining.

Pointless.

Exhaustion eventually coaxes him to sleep, but Draco fails to dream.

That proves much too difficult as well.


	20. Chapter 20

When does time have the most meaning?

Is it when every second fleets by unremorsefully, drowning its victim in a never-ending gyration of ungraspable moments? When one doesn't comprehend that it is even moving in the first place because it bolts before them faster than a shooting star? Or is it when eternity is just an arm's reach away, and one only needs to wiggle their fingers an inch further to snatch that patch of time for themselves? Impede the beat of the universe's heart and conquer the continuum that governs their life?

Is it when one feels the looming presence of time the most, like two tectonic plate scraping past one another and instigating a tremor so palpable that it's as if the earth physically speaks to its patrons, or when one feels its presence the least, like an atom, invisible in nature but grand in role, brushing past someone's skin?

Time is, unquestionably, a complex miracle.

It is too fast, too slow, too present, too absent. It ebbs and bestows both chaos and security. It's paradoxical in nature yet objective in reality.

When shared with others, time can feel like a gift from heaven, a reward for superb behavior, or a tin full of sweet, mince pies, soft in one's hands and warm upon one's tongue.

And yet, time can also wear on the brain in such calamitous fashions that sometimes all one can muster up enough energy to do is stare at the ceiling and count down the seconds in her mind until the minute, hour, then day finally ends. She'll inhale, exhale, and pray for the seconds to cease their intrinsic role.

But time will never stop moving; how can it?

Asking time to stop moving is like asking the earth to stop rotating, the sun to stop providing warmth, and the moon to stop pushing and pulling the tides. These phenomena are ebbed into the order of the universe—to stop would lead to nihilism.

True to her nature, Hermione wants it both ways.

To catch her breath—that is her first request. And then it's to slow time down long enough that she can properly loosen the tension in her shoulders and neck, sleep in a room where his scent doesn't fill the air, expunge him from her mind long enough that she can take another breath. Then, repeat the process.

But if time stops—if she breaks the continuum and falls placidly into the void—then she'll never make it back to Hogsmeade. She'll be forced to live out her days in this bed, staring at the wall, longing for her friends, and wondering why she ever wanted to purge him from her mind in the first place.

She's exhausted. Trapped. A prisoner to time and its nefarious game.

And time is ruthless. It tauntingly ticks through the clock on her nightstand, echoing in her head as a cruel reminder of its dominion over her and the rest of the world.

Hermione cannot save everyone. She'll try, but she's just one _fucking_ person.

Hermione just needs five days.

But five days feels like forever to Draco.

For him, no matter how far he stretches his fingers into the void, he cannot seem to grasp time and control it for himself. Can't make the days go by any faster. Can't coax her back in the blink of an eye.

And so, he suffers in the same way—a prisoner to time.

When does time have the most meaning?

Is it when it moves too fast or too slow?

Hermione would say it's when it moves too fast.

Draco would say it's when it moves too slow.

And yet, time ubiquitously connects them in its wayward nature, tugging them along exactly as the world intended.


	21. Chapter 21

**tw: drug use, mild violence**

She escapes time's prison on the 31st of December.

It's in the moment just after dawn greets London and Crookshanks leaps onto the windowsill of her bedroom and paws at a bird outside of the window that Hermione suddenly feels the exact same sentiment as her kneazle—it's time to move beyond these monotonous walls.

She resolves to send a Patronus to Daphne to inform her of her wish to return to Hogsmeade. They'd planned on reconvening on this day anyhow, but Hermione feels inclined to warn them of her return beforehand. It seems most courteous and sensitive.

Leaning across her bed, Hermione reaches for the wand lying on her nightstand. It's in plain sight, just how she prefers it to be. Convenient and handy. Available in the blink of an eye, should she need it.

She sighs, gazing at the variety of objects cluttering the surface of the table—several books, a golden lamp, a box of tissues, a clock, a small succulent, and a glass of water.

Not tea. Not in a red mug. Not with her favorite, sweet ingredients. Not with the ghost of his fingertips lining the porcelain handle.

Just a tall glass of water, the liquid clear and pure and untouched by others.

Hermione drags her lower lip beneath her teeth, and a tense feeling grows in the center of her stomach, like a rope tightening around her torso. It contracts, and her heart chases the pressure, the longing, the inclination to go back.

She rubs her temple with the palm of her free hand, and with her wand in the other, she effortlessly conjures her bright, little otter. He spurs from the wand in a cloud of white and blue mist, twirling in the air for a moment before hovering in front of Hermione.

"Ask Daphne Greengrass it it'd be alright for me to come back in a few hours."

The Patronus cartwheels in the air, painting it with the trail of his magic. And then he soars across the room and bleeds out of the window, and Crookshanks' eyes dart to catch the sight of the magic before the charm hits the sun's rays, becomes invisible, and amalgamates with the sky itself.

Hermione sighs in relief as she leans back into her pillow, dropping her wand at the foot of her bed and awaiting Daphne's response.

In minutes, Daphne's Patronus comes before Hermione.

A swan, with a wingspan enviable to all other birds, appears upon Hermione's bed. Her wings flap and her elongated neck cranes at the termination of her long flight. 

As lovely as Hermione remembers them to be, Daphne's words come from the Patronus.

_Hermione,_

_Please come back, darling. Whenever you're ready. We've missed you so much._

_Daph._

At the expiry of the message, the swan fades away into the same blue and white mist.

Hermione leaps from under the covers of the bed, her heart practically springing out of her chest. The thumps from her chest shoot through her body and to her feet, which drag her effortlessly to her closet on the wall opposite of her door. And she tears through her clothes with a goal in mind, searching for a sweater, a t-shirt, a blouse—something that she doesn't need. An article of clothing that could serve as a blank canvas for a proper outfit for the evening.

Because with the time she's been given to reflect and relax, she's also replayed Daphne's words in her head about the expected New Year's Eve attire—black, white, silver, or gold.

Gold. Easily the most intriguing of colors to Hermione, what with the way it will undoubtedly complement her skin, her hair, and her eyes.

Mid-search, her fingers settle upon a dense blouse, stuffy and outdated and not representative of who Hermione wishes to be anymore. Yanking it off of the hanger and tossing it onto her bed, Hermione clicks her tongue rhythmically and imagines the outfit she wishes to create. She reaches for her wand and aims it at the blouse.

Red sparks shoot from her wand and surround the blouse in the electrifying magic. The blouse twists in the air and transfigures in moments into her desired dress. It's gold to match her eyes and insides. Sequins cover the fabric to brilliantly reflect off of the strobe lights of the club and simultaneously bring out the light within her. It's a two-piece dress, the top cropped and dainty and the bottom is tight and short to represent her attachment to these two different worlds. And the thin straps of the cropped top are reminiscent of the night he toyed with her skin—

Hermione gulps, leaning forward and running her fingers above the sequins, begging the dress to anoint her with the same confidence as that black one did.

She returns to the closet to pull out a small duffel bag. Hermione doesn't know how long she'll stay around this time, so she resolves to pack enough clothes for three days—it's how much longer they have until they have to return to F.D.E.R.E. meetings. 

That'd be enough—for now. Should things change, her apartment is only an apparition away.

The last thing missing for her trip back to Hogsmeade is the kneazle perched on her windowsill. Crookshanks' tail pats against the base of the ledge with contentment as he basks in the warmth of the sun.

He'll have the same place there, undoubtedly. A spot on the carpet to lounge in the sun. A fuzzy and soft bed to rest upon while he sleeps. A group of people who will give him nothing but attention.

It'll be different, unfamiliar, and confusing, but the love that will surround him will be enough.

Hermione knows—it's already been enough for her.

-

Oddly enough, Crookshanks does not have an issue with apparating.

Wound tightly in Hermione's arms, the kneazle doesn't mutter a sound as Hermione closes her eyes and lets the air spin them into nonexistence and subsequently spit them back out into the new location.

She notices that it smells fresh, like the cobblestone sidewalks are greeting her with open and welcome arms. Like she's been gone for too long, and the scent suddenly hits her nostrils and reminds her of her acceptance here.

Hermione's eyes scale up the apartment building until she reaches their window, three floors up, curtains drawn wide open. Balancing Crookshanks in her left arm, Hermione reaches into her right coat pocket to remove her wand. She flicks it in the air, and the otter reappears, and as if it's in his nature at this point, he swims through the sky and enters that window. 

And moments later, eons faster than her Patronus, Daphne appears in the foyer of the apartment. She throws the front door open with total elation, and her glimmering smile is as wide as the sun as she sprints down the stairs to greet Hermione.

"Hermione!" she squeals, her voice cracking at the last syllable, and then she's jumping into Hermione's arms, wrapping her in a hug, and swinging her back and forth with gleeful laughs. Somehow unbothered by her presence, Crookshanks barely shifts in Hermione's arms as Daphne pushes up against him. In fact, he purrs at the warmth he finds himself in, as if he too feels the love coming from her touch. 

Daphne pulls away, gripping Hermione's shoulder and laughing with relief. Her eyes drop to Crookshanks lying stoically in Hermione's arms.

"Forgive me," she coos, using the side of her finger to gently stroke Crookshanks' head. "Didn't mean to hurt you, darling! I'm just so excited to see your mummy again! Oh, Merlin, he's such a sweetheart! Look at those adorable eyes, and that funny little smile, and—oh my goodness—he is just divine!"

Hermione giggles. "I'm sure he'd appreciate that compliment. Twelve years has never looked better on a kneazle, if you ask me."

"Oh, unquestionably," Daphne responds through a laugh. "The others will be thrilled to see him. Come on—" she reaches for the bag slung over Hermione's shoulder, swings it over her own, and then reaches for Hermione's free hand and locks their fingers. "Let's get you inside!"

They stride up the stone stairs, enter the building, and start up the narrow staircase. Crookshanks cranes his head in Hermione's arms, inspecting the new surroundings with keen perception. His tall ears flick back and forth.

Hermione clears her throat as the two turn the corner, the door to their apartment in plain sight. "How have things been?" she asks tentatively, as if she already knows the answer. 

Daphne sighs and forces a smile. She opens her mouth to speak, but no words form. Hermione can practically sense the wheels in Daphne's mind turn with desperation as she attempts to find the right words, but it is to no avail. After a few moments, Daphne smiles yet again. "They're going to be better now that you're back."

Guilt surges like a tornado through Hermione's body.

She needed those few days. She keeps reminding herself of that fact. But the choice to leave had haunted her every moment she was away. And she simply cannot fathom the emotional toll it took on them, either. Every moment spent away—however much she needed it—was painful for them all.

Hermione reaches for Daphne's arm before she opens the door.

"I'm sorry that I left."

Daphne retracts her arm from the knob, and her mouth falls into the shape of an 'o.' She returns the touch, stroking her fingers over Hermione's arm. "No," she insists, shaking her head, "There's nothing to apologize for, Hermione. Absolutely nothing. You did what was best for you. Everyone understands." She takes a deep breath and exhales soundly. "We're just glad that you came back."

Hermione sighs in relief. "Me too, Daph."

When Daphne opens the door, it feels like Hermione is stepping into a field of flowers on the first day of spring. As if the snow has melted and the sun has shone upon the apartment, each person twists their heads to greet Hermione, their sullen expressions thawing and fading beneath the pastel beams of the sun. Banished and replaced with sprouting flowers in their smiles.

Well, most of their smiles.

Hermione's eyes instinctively fall on him, as they always have. Draco sits in the same lackadaisical and unbothered way, his arms spanning across the back of the couch and his legs spread wide in front of him. His right knee bounces anxiously and only seems to speed up when he turns to gaze at Hermione.

Across from Draco sits Theo and Pansy, wrapped in one another's arms. Yet when he sees Hermione, Theo jumps from the couch, balls his fists, and shakes his hands in the air triumphantly.

"The _kneazle_!" he cries out to the ceiling, and then he's gliding to where Hermione stands just within their apartment.

"Oh, and what is Hermione? Chopped liver?" Daphne retorts, shutting the door and crossing her arms over her chest. 

Theo _tsks_ as he finds a spot next to Hermione. "Ah, Granger knows we adore her presence, but—come on—I've been waiting to meet this little guy for forever!"

There's a look of fear and confusion in Crookshanks' eyes, one that illustrates his puzzlement with the new sensations, the new environment, and the strange people around him. But when Theo lifts his fingers to the kneazle's nose and allows him to become familiar with his scent, Crookshanks willingly extends his head towards Theo's hand. With immense delicacy, Theo scratches the soft crown of Crookshanks' head with his fingertips.

A purr—Crookshanks emits a soft purr, and it's followed by him sticking out his tongue ever so slightly, just enough so that the pink tip rests between his lips. 

Theo melts.

"Oh, come on, he is the _best_ ," he sighs. Although totally enchanted by the kneazle, Theo lifts his face to gaze at Hermione. His chocolate eyes shine with gratitude, and he places his free hand upon her shoulder. "Welcome back, Granger."

Hermione requites his appreciation with a smile and nod. "Thanks, Theo. It's wonderful to be back."

The others follow. Pansy jumps from the couch and greets Crookshanks while latching her arm around Theo, and they both coo and grin at the kneazle together.

Blaise joins the crowd and offers his share of caressing the orange fur. The smile that materializes on his face when his broad hand strokes across the kneazle's back is so bright, so large, so kind, that Hermione considers the possibility that this kneazle—this simple yet adorable addition to the dynamic—is successfully dismantling the tough façade that Blaise often wears.

It's as if Crookshanks has single-handedly reminded him of another reason to be happy.

_Remember this when it hurts._

Like a little prince, waited on day and night without question, Crookshanks purrs and relishes in the attention he receives. His tail unremittingly thumps against Hermione's arm with total elation.

Patting Draco's leg and rising from the couch, Adrian tiptoes towards the crowd and pushes through his friends. He snickers, the laugh echoing in his throat as he stretches his arms forth and wiggles his fingers. "Alright, stop hogging the kneazle, Granger," he jokes. "Hand him over! Sharing is caring!"

Hermione laughs as she passes Crookshanks to Adrian. He receives the kneazle in his arms and cradles him like a baby, swinging him back and forth and tickling his peach stomach softly. And when Crookshanks' head dives into Adrian's chest—a sure sign of his comfort and love—Hermione's knees buckle.

"Now _that's_ a sight for sore eyes," Blaise comments.

"Fuck's sake, I don't think I've ever been this happy to see a kneazle," Adrian sighs, his fingers continuously tickling Crookshanks' belly. "Except for when he clawed Draco's leg in the Great Hall. Damn, that was funny."

The group laughs, a melodious sound to Hermione's ears. They all turn to grin at Draco, who remains lounged on the couch in the same position as before. He rolls his eyes and huffs indignantly.

Daphne pouts her lips at him. "Come on, sourpuss. Come say hi. He's a sweetheart!"

Draco scoffs. "I'll pass. That _thing_ is going to claw my head off if I get anywhere near it."

"All the more reason," Pansy mutters under her breath with a devilish smirk.

"Yeah, that's fucking hilarious, Parkinson," Draco snaps, flaring his nostrils.

Adrian tuts and turns to face Draco. "Come on," he entreats, bouncing the kneazle in his arms and squishing their faces together. He puckers his lips, says, "he's harmless," and then places his forehead upon the top of Crookshanks' head. "Aren't you?"

"Harmless? Oh, please—"

"Just stand near him for a moment so he can get used to your scent," Daphne insists, skipping towards Draco. She takes his wrists in her small hands and hauls him up from the couch, dramatically groaning as he finds his footing and stands. Draco complains under his breath, but Daphne is quick to counter his indignation with a hearty push towards the group.

"Alright, alright, Daph," he insists, waving his hands in the air and slapping them onto his thighs. With a snarl of his lips and a roll of his moonbeam eyes, Draco willingly takes a step forward.

"Whoa, slow steps man," Adrian teases, sticking out his tongue in a moment of playful mockery.

"Ha."

He continues his cautious and trepid steps, completely avoiding Hermione's eye contact the entire time. When he finally reaches Crookshanks, who lies dormant and peaceful in Adrian's arms, Draco leans down and stretches his face towards the kneazle.

"Remember me?" he grimaces.

Upon hearing his voice, Crookshanks' tail ceases its thumping against Adrian's arms—a sign of neutrality, impartiality, and evaluation. His beady eyes study Draco, and his ears stick up.

Draco clenches his jaw. "I think it still hates me."

Daphne scoffs from behind Draco. "Just, here—"

She takes his hand and forces it forward to hover right in front of Crookshanks' nose. The kneazle flares his nostrils and sniffs with attentiveness, and Hermione holds her breath.

And then, a miracle occurs.

Worlds collide and converge into one as Crookshanks leans his head forward and nuzzles himself into Draco's hand.

"Well, would you look at that," Theo teases, biting his lower lip and wrapping his arm around Pansy's shoulder. "Looks like someone doesn't hold grudges."

Draco shoots him a curt look, slicing his ridiculous comment with the hot glare. But his fingers, treading carefully over Crookshanks' fur, tell a different story. Traveling from the crown of his head, Draco's fingers find a place behind Crookshanks' long ear, and then his thumb slides across his cheek several times.

Hermione swears that the corner of Draco's lips rises in a smile—just a millimeter high, and no more than that. But that miniscule and practically invisible action speaks volumes.

"Oh, I see that smile, Malfoy," Blaise laughs. "You can't hide that lovely little expression."

Suddenly, his expression fades.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Draco groans, retracting his hand and obnoxiously wiping it against his grey joggers.

Adrian rolls his eyes. "Come on, Malfoy. Loosen up—"

"I'm going to shower," Draco interrupts, turning on his heels and storming towards his room. The sound of the door being shoved open and slammed shut reverberates in Hermione's mind like it would in a hollow cave, a reminder of the challenges with being back. She bites her lip, holding in her emotions and proclivities that all have to do with caring for Draco Malfoy.

She can't not care. It's simply not how her heart operates. It beats like a rock upon waves, skipping and cutting against each ripple with the goal of traveling as far as possible. But the strongest part of the wave swallows it whole, drawing it to a stagnant rest at the seafloor. And there it remains, abandoned and desolate with the failure of drifting to that island, that paradise, that nirvana that her heart wishes she could reach. Reach with him.

As the others retreat to the couches, Hermione's hand meets Adrian's arm. Coaxed by her touch, he turns back around and raises an eyebrow, still petting Crookshanks as if it's second nature.

"Is everything okay?" Hermione mouths in an almost silent whisper. 

Grasping her insinuations loud and clear, Adrian smiles and winks. "Don't fret, Granger. Everything will be alright." 

_Everything will be alright._

The words ring empty simply because they are so broad, void of any substance and reassurance. And although Adrian's words customarily soothe Hermione's anxiety, she can't help but feel uneasy about the way Draco acts, walks, even looks at her.

He's not the same Draco that kissed her scar.

She drops onto the couch next to Adrian and crosses her legs, watching as he continues to shower Crookshanks with saccharine smiles and delightful caresses beneath his long fingers.

The door to Draco's room swings back open, and Hermione pitifully twists her head to catch a glance of him. Her breath catches in her throat as he charges out of his room in nothing but a towel to cover his lower body.

He's only visible for a moment before he steps into the bathroom just across from his room, but that second sends shockwaves through Hermione's chest to her stomach. Because right before he disappears into the bathroom, Hermione cements the image of his bare torso, adorned with magnificent black tattoos spiraling all around his body, in her mind.

There's the snake on his arm, coiling perfectly around his bicep like a thick twine. And then there's a flower on his right pectoral, its petals rounded like dull and soft triangles. And on the other side of his chest are constellations and planets, and then there are butterflies and reptilian scales climbing up the empty parts of his arms, a series of words spread across the side of his chest, an anatomical heart on his right forearm, a shark on his wrist, and then the fucking Dark Mark—they're all perfectly visible in their deep, black ink.

But most intriguing to Hermione is what rests on his left shoulder. Although it was only a brief glance, Hermione spotted an arrow-shaped tail resting on his collarbone, connected to a longer body that led to his back.

Is it odd that Hermione wanted him to turn around so she could see the rest of the tattoo? She has an idea of what it is—it's quite obvious, anyway—but there's something about the ambiguity of the tattoos in general that toggles a switch in Hermione's brain.

When Hermione hears the creak of the faucet switch on and the water tread against the porcelain tub, she realizes that she's been staring at the spot where Draco stood moments ago, daydreaming about those tattoos.

Adrian nudges her arm with his elbow, and her cheeks immediately flush with a rosy tint.

"You seem intrigued," Adrian smirks with an eyebrow raise.

The others converse quietly as Hermione exhales a laugh and musters up an iota of courage for her response. "Isn't that expected at this point? What with your plenty of insinuations?"

"Ah, the brightest witch of her age shines forth," Adrian sighs.

"What's the tattoo on his back?" she asks quietly, her curiosity too strong to control.

Adrian chuckles and tuts at Hermione, adjusting Crookshanks so that he lies upon his lap.

"Ah, Granger. I don't want to spoil any surprises. Besides—"

He snorts, jabbing the inside of his cheek with his tongue, and Hermione's chest tightens with the promise of an inkling of information.

"I'm sure you'll be seeing it one of these days."

-

The day goes by quietly, consisting primarily of welcoming Crookshanks to the apartment.

Theo explained to Hermione how he and Pansy had gone out and bought the kneazle several toys a few days ago with the hopes that he'd come by in the near future; Hermione melted like lava at his words and gesture.

And they played with Crookshanks all day, their new toys proving to be a smashing success.

At a certain point in the afternoon, Hermione expressed that she wanted to take a brief walk around town. Pansy offered to accompany her, and while they traipsed around the village, Hermione asked about her mark.

"It hasn't hurt much," she explained as they turned a corner in Hogsmeade. "But we'll see what happens when we have to start going back to those fucking meetings."

Hermione had seemingly forgotten about the meetings, about Aberfield, Bruiser, Kingsley, her _job_. The world had flipped on its axis when she arrived in Hogsmeade that first night.

As much as she hates to admit it, the program did accomplish one thing. It brought her to the Slytherins and reaffirmed her intuition about them—they do deserve compassion.

When night descends upon Hogsmeade, and Crookshanks finds it too exhausting to chase a fake mouse and a light from the tip of a wand around the floor of the apartment, the group decides to begin preparing for the evening.

The girls convene in Pansy's room, a cavern for priming themselves in their chosen outfits and makeup. Already donned in her dress—a silky, silver slip that reaches the upper half of her thighs—Daphne watches excitedly as Hermione rummages through her bag and reveals her piece for the evening. Pansy scours her closet for her own outfit, pushing through hangers and inspecting each dress as it flashes by her eyes.

"Is this alright?" Hermione asks, gripping her gold ensemble in her hands and lying the pieces flat on the bed for the girls to inspect. Both lean over her shoulders and gasp at the sight.

"Hermione!" Daphne shrieks, seizing her bicep with her fingers. "Wherever did you find this masterpiece?"

Hermione chuckles, smiling with her teeth and reveling in the compliment and approval. "I just sort of imagined it in my head and then transfigured an old blouse," she explains, biting her lower lip. 

"Granger, it is positively gorgeous," Pansy attests with a soft and proud smile. "And that's coming from me."

Hermione glances over her left shoulder to return the beam.

"Now—hear me out—let's give you just a little more sparkle," Pansy suggests, resuming her exploration of her closet and vigorously digging through her articles. She bends at her knees and reaches for a pair of heels shoved off to the side. Spinning with a sneaky smile on her face, Pansy flashes a pair of glittering, open-toed heels, adorned with straps on the ankle.

Hermione laughs and takes the shoes with pleasure. "Once again, Pansy, I have to commend and thank you for your wonderful style."

"You did this one all by yourself, Granger," Pansy teases. "As much as I'd love to take credit for how hot you'll look tonight, that was all you. Now, it's my turn."

Pansy spins and locates her dress for the night hanging in between an ensemble of black, emerald, and red dresses. She snatches the dress off of the hanger and holds it before the girls. It's black and velvet with sheer long-sleeves, cinched at the waist and short beyond belief. After basking in Hermione and Daphne's choruses of "oohs" and "aahs," Pansy tosses the dress onto her bed and begins to strip, lifting her shirt over her head to reveal a small, dark grey, and lace bralette.

Hermione turns politely, to which Pansy tsks.

"You didn't have very many girlfriends at Hogwarts, did you, Granger?"

 _No_ , she thinks to herself, _but that's not something I'd like to admit._

"Right, well," Pansy continues, reaching for her dress and slipping it over her body, "It's a sign of trust, Granger." Pansy clears her throat for the next sentence: "One might say vulnerability." 

It's something Hermione would've thought inconceivable in the past—Pansy Parkinson admitting that she is comfortable being vulnerable around others, Hermione especially. And it's reminiscent of the moment they shared in the seminar room when Pansy first approached Hermione about her pain. Hermione will never forget the look in Pansy's eyes, like she'd seen and experienced Hell and could barely express the torment she endured there.

But Pansy had climbed her way out, and that was all that mattered to Hermione in that moment. 

Pansy slips the dress completely over her body and sighs with confidence.

"Take your time," she tells Hermione as she adjusts the hem of her dress to suitably hug her thighs.

"We can't wait to see you," Daphne adds, and then Pansy is frantically slipping on her own pair of heels and is stumbling out of the room with Daphne, allowing Hermione her privacy. 

She finds herself in the same position as that first night when she borrowed Pansy's little black dress; the only difference is that this time it is her own source of confidence about the evening that is coercing her to dress up. She chose the dress—imagined the piece in her mind and created it out of that glorious image.

She did it with two things in mind: herself and—she cannot lie—him.

Her clothes find themselves on the ground in moments, the excitement of the evening dawning upon her mind and coaxing her to get ready as fast as possible. The dress takes the place of her former clothes, resting upon the dips of her waist and the natural curve of her chest. Slipping the heels on to complete the ensemble, Hermione stands in front of the small mirror on the wall, inspecting herself and recalling the same feelings from that night. 

Incredible. Confident. Almost unearthly, like she's been sent from heaven.

There's little hesitation in stepping out of Pansy's room and making her grand entrance in the living room. She's become accustomed to illustrious and majestic entrances now, exulting in the impressed gazes she receives from her peers. There's no inclination to conceal her exposed skin—not her legs, her arms, or the strip of her torso that is uncovered by the slit in her two-piece. She enters the living room with poise and coolness, the beat of her heels against the wooden floors rejuvenating her confidence with each tap.

The group is chatting and laughing with one another when she steps outside, and it's a moment that she wishes she didn't interrupt. It's organic and beautiful to see such joy between them.

She even sees it on Draco's face, who smirks at one of Adrian's comments.

But the second his eyes fall on her, the smirk disappears. His eyes glue to her body, coursing up and down her figure with such intensity that she can feel his emotions. Hermione watches as his chest, taut against a tight black sweater, rises up and down in a steady beat. And she notices his jaw and fists clench, like he's trying desperately to hold himself together.

Adrian leaps from the couch next to Draco and kisses his fingers. "Granger!" he shouts, approaching her and extending his hand. She warily takes it, unsure of his intentions. But when he lightheartedly lures her into a playful spin under his arm, she laughs at the thought of being the center of attention. "Anyone who denies that you are the Golden Girl is so far up their own arses, honestly."

Theo sits upon the arm of the further couch with Pansy standing between his legs, his fingers delicately trailing up and down her hips. "I haven't seen this dress in our closet, Pans," Theo comments over her shoulder.

Pansy shakes her head with a smirk, looking over her shoulder and down at Theo. "That's not one of mine, darling. It's hers."

"Well, look at you, Granger," Adrian continues. "Always knew you had a little spark." He turns to Draco and gestures towards Hermione. "Anything nice to say, Malfoy?"

Flagging Adrian's side while sitting on the other couch with Blaise, Daphne tsks at Adrian and rolls her eyes. "Adrian—"

"She looks great."

Now, the tone is sharp and curt. Candid and straightforward, leaving no room for interpretation. But Hermione can't help letting her brain spin out of control at the sound of the compliment coming from Draco's mouth. It's followed by Draco taking a large swallow and tapping his fingers against his right knee, his knee which bounces with keenness.

"Is it Yule Ball great?" Adrian pushes with a conniving grin.

"Alright, alright, enough out of you," Daphne interjects, taking Blaise's hand in hers and rising from her couch. "Let's get going, yeah?"

Turning and winking at Hermione, Adrian whispers, "Goodness gracious, I just can't seem to help myself."

-

What Daphne said about Amortentia on New Year's Eve is true: the club pageants an exceptional and fantastical ambiance on this night.

It's uniform and glorious, like stepping through the golden gates of heaven and into paradise, a place untainted by sin even though that's exactly what happens here.

The gold and white strobe lights crash upon Hermione's skin as she steps down the platform and onto the dance floor where she's welcomed by a similar crowd of dancing and twirling bodies. Yet the homogeny of the color palate and the implied importance of the holiday stand paramount to the other aspects of the club. There must be seventy people crammed in the epicenter of the floor, all dressed in their ascribed colors, dancing upon one another without a care in the world and exchanging sweat and camaraderie like they're a form of currency.

Hermione's eyes reach the stage and latch onto Titus, who stands off to the side and examines the crowd before him. It is clear to Hermione, based on his favorable expressions, that he savors the sight of his patrons socializing and celebrating the prominence of the evening. And while he fiddles with the cuffs of his black suit, Hermione notices an unfamiliar gentleman approach Titus from behind, wrap his arm over his shoulder, and plant an affectionate kiss on his cheek.

She opens her mouth to make a comment to whoever stands next to her, but her voice is cut off by a hand wrapping around hers and hauling her around the border of the club to the bathroom on the other side.

They pile into their paradise and prepare themselves for rapture.

It's an identical routine as before. Save Hermione, the group lines themselves at the counter while Draco and Adrian carefully prepare the lines for the evening. The little dime bag comes into Hermione's sight, and all of a sudden enticement soars through her chest and settles into her bones. She presses her back against the door and watches them go to work.

It looks... so enticing... so exciting... so invigorating.

So... worth it?

The question tumbles past her lips: "Can I try again?"

She's met with silence as each and every head of theirs spins to stare at her. It doesn't take much discernment for Hermione to realize that her request has struck a nerve with the group. She senses the shock and fear in their eyes—even those silver irises glisten with dread.

Theo clears his throat. "Oh, Granger—"

"Absolutely _fucking_ not," Draco snaps at Theo before he can finish his sentence.

Hoisting his arms in surrender, Theo rotates his torso to confront Draco behind him. "What makes you think I was going to say yes?"

"Well, were you?"

" _No_ ," Theo practically seethes, rolling his eyes as he spins back around to face Hermione. "Granger, you remember our conversation, right?"

"Your _conversation_?" Draco fumes, taking a step forward and slanting his eyebrows.

"Fuck's sake, would you relax for two seconds, Malfoy?" Theo retorts with a raised voice.

Realizing her role in the festering contention, Hermione opens her mouth to speak. "You know what, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked. It's fine, really."

"No, don't apologize, Granger," Theo responds smoothly, his anger cast aside as he addresses Hermione. "It's just... this stuff is dangerous. People always say one more line, one more time, one more purchase. We just don't think it'd be safe for you to make this a habit. Like what we talked about."

"I understand," Hermione sighs, and she feels disappointed for a moment, but the emotion is quickly replaced by something far more important than an enjoyable half hour.

What Theo demonstrates in this moment is his undying inclination to protect Hermione, save someone else from the pain that he feels every day. Because the love of his life, his soulmate, his closest companion suffers next to him, and there's little he can do to truly save her.

And if Theodore Nott can save another friend from this fate, then he will do it in a second.

_We need you, Granger._

"But if you want to feel that way again," Theo starts, reaching his fingers into his pocket, "I can help you with that."

Theo removes his own small dime bag from the pocket of his black slacks, but this one is occupied by one small, white pill.

"You trust me, Granger?"

"Yes," she responds without hesitation, and she's surprised at how effortlessly the answer slips out of her mouth.

Theo smiles, his lips curving and generating sweet dimples on his cheeks. "I've made this for you, in case you ever wanted to experience the feeling again. So, check it out. It's not a drug. The capsule will only mimic the effects of a cocaine high without actually getting you high at all. You'll just feel as though you are."

Hermione's mouth hangs open with astonishment. "So, it's like a placebo effect?"

Theo snorts and turns the dime bag in his fingers. "A variation of that phenomenon, yes. See, your mind will simply convince itself that it's under the effects of the drugs, but you won't actually be high at all."

Driven by her curiosity and interest, Hermione asks again, "So, not a drug?"

"Not at all," Theo confirms. "It's magic. Have you already forgotten how brilliant of a wizard I am?"

Hermione laughs and steps forward. "How on earth were you able to do that?"

"It took a while, actually," he begins to explain. "I had to very meticulously alter a batch of cocaine and disguise it as something else. Modify the properties and extract the—"

He pauses, raising an eyebrow and exhaling. "Fuck's sake, you won't make me relay the impossible to pronounce scientific terms, will you?"

Hermione smirks. "I don't know—sounds quite interesting, if you ask me. Have you already forgotten my personality back in the Hogwarts classroom?"

Theo playfully rolls his eyes and chortles at the parallel. "Still as inquisitive as ever, aren't you?"

"Oh, quite."

"Well, I can guarantee you that I've altered it precisely enough that the addictive properties of the drugs are—" he whistles— "gone. Imagine that the drug is like a person, alright? And I'm a surgeon. Being the brilliant wizard I am, I was able to extract the conceptual properties of the drug—let's call it, the _soul_ of the drug. The euphoria, the high, the pleasure factors. Leaving the less appealing features behind, I was able to solidify the desired properties into one little capsule. You want to be even further amazed? This high is going to last you about two hours. And your crash in the morning is going to be much more bearable—practically nonexistent."

Realizing that she's been gazing at Theo with incredible admiration, Hermione breaks eye contact and surveys the faces of the others. Their mouths gape wide open at the information, like they knew that Theo was incredibly ingenious already but misconstrued _just_ how clever and inventive Theo really is.

"Our resident fucking genius," Adrian says, swathing Theo's shoulders with his arm and tugging him into his side.

Theo shakes the baggie in the air, cocking his eyebrow at Hermione and lifting his lip in a boastful smirk. "This is the fucking future, Granger."

"And you're sure that it only just exhibits the symptoms?" Blaise asks.

"Positive," Theo responds, kissing the tips of his fingers like a chef. "I'm a god."

"Yes, you are," Pansy slurs, delicately kissing Theo's cheek. "In more ways than one."

"Oh, fucking hell, Parkinson," Draco mutters with a conspicuous eye roll.

Pansy shoots a glare over her shoulder at Draco. "Darling, your jealousy is louder than the music in this club."

Hermione finds herself staring at the white pill—the manifestation of all the good and alluring parts of cocaine—nestled inside the bag. She reminisces on the first night she sampled it, and suddenly the ghost of all the things that happened that night sweeps up her back like a chill and percolates through her skin. It wraps itself around her brain, taunting her motor cortex to react.

She's extending her hand and receiving the pill before she truly comprehends it.

Dipping her finger into the bag, she removes the white capsule and holds it between her thumb and index finger. She blinks and ruminates over how such a tiny pill can hold such influence over a person. Can effectively alter the chemicals in their brain to create the most wonderful feelings in the world.

And how it can also take that all away in a matter of time.

She has to remember that reality, too.

Hermione looks up at Theo. "Thank you," she says, nodding her head with deep appreciation.

Theo shrugs nonchalantly—as if this is some unremarkable magic—and pivots to glower at Draco. "That satisfying enough for you, Malfoy?"

Draco groans, chewing the inside of his cheek and levitating his eyebrows dismissively.

"Go on, Granger," Theo encourages, nodding his head. "I _promise_ it's safe. I wouldn't give it to you if I wasn't positive."

Pushing the pill with her index finger into the palm of her right hand, Hermione takes a deep breath and tips the pill into her mouth. She swallows effortlessly, feeling the pill slide down her throat and settle into her stomach. And as the others begin to inhale their several lines of the powder, Hermione consents to the sensations festering within her. She lets the pill colonize the corners and crevices of her figure, conscious of the way that the dissolution of the charmed substance clings to her nerves and rushes straight to her brain. 

In a minute, she can already sense her fingers turning hot with energy, her feet feeling the heartbeat of the club through the pounding floor, the hair on her arms standing upright as invisible atoms brush past her sensitized skin, and her heart striking her ribcage in tandem with the throbbing bass of the music.

They pile out of the bathroom and enter heaven, their wings spread and halos mounted.

And it's _incredible._

Hermione feels everything again. The lights, the air, Pansy and Daphne's hands as they trail up and down her body while the three of them dance.

Euphoria sweeps over her body without the bloody side effects. The drip, the stinging, the unpleasant taste—they all falter under Theo's masterpiece, and Hermione is left feeling so fucking blissful that she could transcend this very universe and reach heaven if she tried.

The air suffocates her in the best way possible. It's stuffy and warm, the crowd of bodies driving the temperature up to what feels like one million degrees, but as Hermione tilts her head back into Pansy's shoulder and sways her body against Pansy's hips, she dispels the fusty heat from her senses and instead focuses on Pansy's fragrance upon her neck—it's exotic and natural, like amber.

"How do you feel, Granger?" Pansy shouts, her hands trickling down to wrap around Hermione's waist.

"Wonderful!" Hermione shouts back. "Your Theo is a genius!"

"Have I been summoned?" Theo calls out from beside them, and suddenly he's situating himself behind Pansy and reaching for her hips. Hermione's eyes connect with Theo's as her head bounces up and down Pansy's shoulder; she gleams at his face, upside down from her line of vision. Theo sticks his tongue out at her. "Paws off, Granger, or I'm going to lose this one to you!" 

Hermione pouts but obliges, disconnecting herself from Pansy's grip and stumbling away. She turns and admires the way Theo rests his chin in the space upon Pansy's shoulder and whispers lovingly in her ear. Pansy knocks her head back and laughs into his shoulder, and Hermione can just make out the words that Pansy mouths back to Theo:

_I love you._

Glancing over her right shoulder, Hermione spots the others engaged in their own dancing. Adrian has Daphne pressed up against his body as he amicably swings her around, his giant hand swathing her little one like a cloud casing over the sun. 

Draco and Blaise have their arms wrapped around one another's shoulders, laughing and patting one another fraternally, and occasionally Blaise will swing to the side and coax Draco to do the same. With a roll of his eyes and a collapse of his walls, Draco succumbs to the music and to the pleas of his friend.

Hermione stares at those arms, that sweater, that torso, and she feels an uncontrollable urge to approach him, wrap herself between those arms, tip her head back into his shoulder, and whisper in his ear just how badly she feels like provoking a dragon tonight.

"Ah, it's you."

A similar voice, one Hermione remembers all too well, trickles down her neck in a soft yet tainted breath. She feels someone crowd against her back and hold her taut in his arms.

Able to twist out of the grip, Hermione turns around and sees the man she danced with that night—no, the man she bloody _kissed_ that night—leering at her with his hungry eyes.

"You ran off last time before we could finish what we started."

His hands find Hermione's waist, his index fingers meeting her exposed skin, and he tugs her towards him. His forehead collides with hers, and he grins as he sinks his fingers into her skin.

Hermione sets her hands against the man's chest and pushes back. "Oh, I—"

"You left me wanting more of the sweet taste of your lips."

_Breathe, Hermione. You'll be okay._

She fakes a smile and shakes her head, teetering between being polite and being hasty to remove herself from the uncomfortable situation. She lightly shoves his chest again. "I don't think tonight—"

"Come on," he interrupts with a sigh, "Let's pick up where we left off."

His hands snatch her wrists.

_Alright, fuck being nice._

"I don't think you're hearing me," Hermione hisses. "I don't want to."

"You left me wanting so much more," he continues, lowering his head towards hers.

Hermione is strong. She's physically capable of anything that comes her way. She's taken down countless witches, wizards, and creatures that have ever had the displeasure of threatening her. Fuck's sake, even Voldemort was threatened by her. 

So why is it that when this single man has his hands wrapped around Hermione's wrists, she suddenly feels quite powerless? Like he's sucked all of her bravery out with his horrific and erotic gazes?

She hates the feeling. Despises looking weak.

"You have _five_ seconds to take your hands off of me—"

"Come on, darling. What's different this time?"

_Quite a bit._

Hermione's breath quivers as the man pulls her even more flush against him.

She reacts, stomping her heel on his foot.

"Ow! What the fuck?" he growls, snarling his lips at her.

"Hey!"

Adrian flanks to Hermione's side, placing his left hand on her shoulder and his right hand on the man's chest. And when the man tries to step forward, Adrian grips the lapels of his black button-up and thrusts him backwards with one grand push.

"You better fuck off, you hear me?" Adrian orders, flaring his nostrils and pointing his finger at the man.

"And who the fuck are you?" he shouts, tilting his head and rolling his shoulders back.

"Who the fuck am _I_?" Adrian repeats, jabbing his own finger into his chest and baring his teeth. "Who the fuck are _you_?"

"I'm just asking her to dance—"

"Oh, yeah? So yanking her around while she tries to pull away is you 'asking' her to dance?" Adrian taunts, leaving Hermione's side so he can shove the man back again, this time into a group of dancers. The man stumbles and raises his arms in a half-hearted surrender, yet his eyes harbor a look of pure malice.

Hermione mutters a profanity under her breath and steps forward. "Adrian, it's alright—"

"You think you're some big man, huh?" Adrian continues, ignoring Hermione behind him. "You stupid fuck. Walk away before I bash your fucking skull and paint the floor with your blood."

"I don't know where you got the impression that this is any of your business," the man heckles, shoving Adrian's chest with his palm.

Adrian barely moves at the contact—not with his broad chest and firm stance. 

"Don't put your hands on me, or I swear it will be the last thing you do," Adrian says through gritted teeth, folding the sleeves of his dress shirt to his elbows.

"Is that so?"

Out of nowhere, someone else swoops in from behind Hermione and Adrian, hurling a punch at the man's face and tackling him to the ground.

It's a dragon attack.

Knuckles already beet red and sweat glistening upon the back of his neck, Draco straddles the man and hurls punch after punch upon his face. It cracks like porcelain under his knocks, and blood begins to seep from the man's nose in a matter of seconds. Club goers scatter from the direct area, but the pummels are effectively masked by the chaotic energy of the club, the commotion and the lights and the music and the plethora of distractions.

Hermione hears a crunch and sees more blood.

She's frozen in place while Adrian chortles with glee.

"Oh, fuck yeah, Malfoy!" he cheers with an elated grin, the thrill of the sight causing him to swipe the air victoriously with his fist.

Hermione can barely process her breathing as Draco finally stands, spits in the man's direction and wipes his nose against the back of his hand. And then he's reaching down and removing his wand from the ankle-holster hidden beneath his slacks. He aims it at the man and breathes heavily.

" _Depulso_."

Wrapped in white sparks from Draco's wand, the man flies through the air and lands on a loveseat several feet away. Half of his limp body hangs off of the couch, and his chest rises in rickety beats like he's holding onto his last inkling of consciousness.

Draco slowly turns around, takes one look at Hermione's horrified expression, and walks away.

Like usual. He walks away like usual.

No. He doesn't get to attack someone and then storm off as if nothing happened.

Hermione clenches her fists together as she watches Draco stagger through the crowd and disappear into the bathroom.

That _fucking_ bathroom. 

Her feet, which should have carried her to him earlier, obey her mind as they rush in his direction.

Because—no—Draco _doesn't_ get to just walk away. He doesn't get to hide and sulk every time something inconvenient happens, or every time something inexplicable takes over his body and makes him act the way he does. She's had enough of his running, his hiding, his game.

She reaches the door, grips the metal knob, feels the lingering touch of his fingers on it, and thrusts the door wide open.

Draco is washing his hands when Hermione finds him. Scrubbing the blood off of his knuckles and staring himself down in the mirror. She slams the door shut, gaining access to his eyes for just a moment. Hermione can't decipher his expression. Because on the one hand, he appears distraught and disappointed; on the other hand, there's a hint of victory in his eyes and upon his ears, flushed with adrenaline and exhilaration.

"I was handling that!" Hermione blurts, crossing her arms over her chest and tapping her heel against the floor.

Draco scoffs and reattaches eye contact with her through the mirror, and it's a thrilling yet terrifying sight. It sends shivers up Hermione's bare legs. "Yeah," he slurs, "Because it was going so smoothly before I showed up."

"Huh! I had that under control," she continues. "I don't need you attacking another person on my behalf when you _know_ that I am fully capable of taking care of things by myself."

"Oh, I'm fully aware. My attacking that fucker had nothing to do with that," he sighs, lifting his hands off of the counter and leaning his waist upon the ledge. "Do you know how long I've thought about doing that to him?"

 _That fucker you kissed_ is all that rings in Hermione's ears and all that she sees in his eyes. His eyes, practically aflame with those words, swathing and suffocating the grey with an inferno so tall that is cloaks the very smoke it produces.

"What the hell makes you think you can just punch someone when they do something you don't like?" Hermione asks, her cheeks growing pink as the image of Draco defending her replays in her mind.

"Oh, don't tell me you didn't enjoy the show a little," he taunts, sliding his tongue across his bottom lip. 

The reality becomes clear to Hermione—Draco is a different person when he's high. When the drugs control his body. When they conduct his brain. It's like he's rushing down a track at uncontrollable speeds, privy to falling off the rails at any moment at the will of the conductor.

"You are such an enigma," she scoffs. 

"And you don't enjoy that? Hm? You don't find pleasure in _wanting_ to pick me apart?"

Draco begins to menacingly inch towards Hermione, tapping his long fingers against the counter as he trails the side of it. "Haven't we gone over this already? I know you're dying to figure me out."

"I already have a decent idea of who you are, Malfoy."

Draco _hmphs_ and raises his eyebrows, stopping at the end of the sink and staring her down from a few feet away.

"Well, don't be shy, Granger. Feel free to analyze the hell out of me."

She takes a deep breath through her nose, channeling the pill, the dragon, her own sense of courage. 

And then she takes a step towards him.

"I think that there are two sides to you. There's the Malfoy on drugs, and the Malfoy not on drugs. The Malfoy on drugs hates me. Hates me yet craves me at the same time. I think my innate sense of confidence and drive is a threat to your façade. It jeopardizes the very disguise that you try so desperately to wear every day of your life."

Draco clenches his jaw, leading it to spring forth against his pale skin. Hermione can make out the indentation of his jawline with ease, and her lips curl in satisfaction as she takes another step towards him.

"But then, there's Malfoy when he's not on drugs. When you're detoxing—when you're just you, not this image that the world has subscribed to you—I think you respect me, admire me, and want me. I think you become confused and angry with that reality, and then subsequently frustrated because you don't know how to express it. You don't even know if you want to express it. Because that means changing everything about the person you've built up these past few years. And that scares you."

Steam shoots from his nose. "You think that I'm some scared, soft fucker, huh? That I don't think about ripping that smug expression off of your face every day? Clawing at that curly mess on your head? Fucking strangling you, Granger? Believe me. I _dream_ about it."

"I think," she starts, treading with ease, "Unless you finally do those things, then yes. You are a soft fucker, Malfoy."

Draco cocks an eyebrow. "Oh, _wow_. You really just love poking dragons, don't you?"

"Very much so."

"You remember what dragons do when they get provoked, then?"

"Bite?" she whispers, the word curling off her lips slowly and ethereally.

He snickers. "Even worse."

His hand juts out and grasps her throat, and while he settles his fingers on the back of her neck, his thumb rests just below her chin. He tilts Hermione's head back with the tip of his thumb and snarls above her. "They shower you with their rage."

"Well, don't be shy, Malfoy," she slurs, and their mouths begin to exchange pockets of air as he inches closer and closer to her. "I'm dying to see how hot those flames of yours really are."

"Oh?" he probes, tilting his head to the side and glaring at her with ferocity. "You enjoy playing with fire?"

"Yes," she answers.

"Yeah?" His fingers tap against her neck, each touch more electrifying than the last. "You scared to get burned?"

"Not one bit."

"Not scared of the pain?"

"The pain makes it worth it. Wouldn't you agree?"

The comment draws Draco's breath right back into his throat.

He tries to deliver his next sentence with as much confidence as possible, but the words come out in staggered intones, bouncing off of the air without any reverberation.

"Th—there's that pain kink again—"

"Wouldn't you _agree_?" she repeats, this time more forceful. 

His grip around her neck falters. Hermione can feel his hand go limp against her skin, the side of his palm resting against her collarbone as he loses the drive to taunt her.

Draco shakes his head and flattens his lips, delivering his response in a lower voice. "You don't deserve the pain."

"Neither do you."

Draco stares her down, the flames in his eyes reduced to ice as he tries desperately to hold onto the confidence. But like a glacier splintering in the heat of the moment, Draco's façade cracks.

"It's all I know how to feel," he whispers.

"Well, can you feel this?"

Hermione lifts her thumb to rest against his lower lip. She drags it down lightly, and it's moist and soft against her gentle touch.

Draco exhales upon her finger, his eyebrows cocked with perplexity. "What are you—"

"What about this?" Hermione continues, the sweet intones of her voice and tender strokes against his arm shattering his walls, his pretenses, his fucking sham of a life. Hermione finds his chest with her hands, and she snakes her fingers across the soft sweater, up to his shoulders, then to his neck, and then to the back of his head. She lightly tugs him towards her, and he breathes just above her mouth, an act that revitalizes her, draws her into a state of total bliss.

"Do you feel this?" she asks again. 

Draco closes his eyes and nods, his forehead rubbing against hers as he does so.

"Do you feel it more than everything else?"

"Yes," he says, and it sounds as though he is under a spell of some sort.

"Is it stronger than the pain you feel?"

"Yes."

"What does it feel like?"

"Like... fucking novocaine. I can't feel anything else."

Hermione sucks a breath through her teeth as she feels Draco's hand slide down her arm and jump to her waist.

"I can help take away your pain."

"No—"

"I can help you feel better—"

"Just stop—"

"I can bring you peace—"

"Granger—"

"Let me _help_ you."

He opens his eyes and scoffs at the word, disconnecting their foreheads for a moment to shake his head with frustration. "I told you I hate—"

"You hate that word," Hermione interrupts. "I know. You hate the thought of accepting help because it means that you're not as strong as you thought you were. You hate feeling weak, out of control, and fragile. You hate feeling things that you never thought you would feel. Maybe you hate what you've become. But Malfoy—"

Her hands find his cheeks, the warmth of his face melting her hands.

"You don't have to self-destruct. You don't have to hate yourself. Not when there are people all around you who would do anything to bring you peace."

Draco inhales through his nose, his chest aching with such longing that he can barely breathe, barely see straight, barely comprehend just how close she is to him.

"I'm not afraid to get burned," Hermione says. "And you shouldn't be afraid of burning me—"

Hermione's sentence is sucked out of her mouth when Draco slams his lips against hers.

His lips are warm, like the desire departs from his mouth in an array of flames. Like he's engulfed her in a fiendfyre, and the only sensations she can grasp as the ones that boil in her lower stomach, simmering and smoldering that little box of secret desires until nothing exists, the demons run free, and she's giving in to what she's thought about for so long.

Her knees buckle under the intensity of his lips, and Draco's left hand drops to catch her lower back and press her flush against him.

Their lips communicate with everything they have, ebbing and driving upon one another as if even the thought of being apart would kill them both. 

She's desperate to continue to study him with her own hands, so Hermione presses her palms against his chest and tugs him in tighter—if that's even bloody possible—and then she's trailing the contours of his chest with her fingers, and _fucking hell_ she can feel the palpitations of his body against her palms like a booming bass. 

It feels like the sun—like she's caressing this animated and beating star with her cool fingertips, singeing his skin with her equally desirous disposition.

When Draco's tongue pushes past the fortifications of her lips, swirling across hers like he's desperate to taste her, like her mouth is an oasis and he's been wandering in a desert for years, Hermione sinks further and further into him. She surrenders to his mannerisms and warmth as he carefully guides her to the door, pushes her up against it, and kisses her more and more.

He'll occasionally wander to the side of her lips, and in that moment, Hermione catches her breath. Because Draco is sucking it right out of her with this kiss. She doesn't complain about the lack of air, though. If anyone should have her oxygen, it's him.

Penetrating through their pocket of euphoria is a countdown coming from the shouts of the club goers outside, signifying the commencement of the new year. The countdown flies by like a song, but they can't focus on anything else except for the consummation of their lips, the ebb and flow of their tongues, and the long-awaited moment finally reaching fruition.

The new year arrives, Hermione's lips gifting it to Draco.

With every trace of her fingers against him, Draco feels like he's being kissed by stars, brushed by a supernova so strong and warm and resilient. He can feel her so vividly, but it's not just the cocaine. It's the pining, the secretive emotions, the daydreams and desires all meshing into one action—he kissed her. And he's still kissing her. And she's kissing him. Her hands are in his hair, on his chest, around his cheeks.

Every part of their lips, every small nip and little sound that escapes their mouths, attests to the worth of the moment. The worth he sees in her.

But while Draco caresses her silky lips with his, a thought crosses his mind: _you're going to ruin her._

He ignores it and continues to feed her with his breath, his affection, and–yes, she was bloody right—his admiration. And she reciprocates wholeheartedly, willingly taking his pain for herself.

_You're going to drag her down with you._

No, he can't be away from her. He can't stop stroking his fingers against her velvet skin—the little patch that is exposed beneath this otherworldly dress, her sensitized arms, her pulsating legs as they shudder against him. He can't stop kissing her mouth, the very mouth that has spewed both hatred and compassion for him, the same mouth he has thought about for years and years in the back of his head.

No, he simply cannot be apart from her. Not when it's taken this fucking long to get here.

_You're going to kill her, just like you're going to kill yourself._

It's too far.

Draco rips his lips from Hermione's and stumbles backwards. A head rush takes control of his brain, brought on by the forced removal of her lips and the sadistic voice in his head.

Hermione touches her lips and furrows her eyebrows in confusion. She takes a cautious step forward. "Malfoy—"

"Don't," Draco begs, extending his hand out between them and pointing his index finger at her as a caveat.

"But—"

Suddenly, the air sucks Draco into a white mist. His body contorts and twists, and then the atmosphere swallows him whole.

Hermione finds herself alone in the bathroom, slack-jawed and confused. Her lips ache, sore and throbbing from the effect of his lips but nevertheless dying to feel them again. Dying to undertake that pain and suffering for herself.

She had found heaven upon his lips and came tumbling back to earth when he pulled away.

And is that how he felt when she left five days ago? Because now Hermione knows pain.

He was right. It hurts. It _burns_.

And time sheathes her in sadness again, because the moment they found one another—the moment the seconds started to feel as they should—the continuum jinxed and tore them apart yet again.


	22. Chapter 22

**tw: blood**

Maybe it’s not time that rips them apart. Or the universe.

Maybe it’s just themselves.

It’s a never-ending game of cat and mouse between the two of them. They chase one another around, never actually believing that one will catch the other. The thrill of the hunt is what drives them to play. And yet, the moment one of them is caught in the headlights, exposing something too real and authentic, too clandestine and private, the game halts. The clock stops ticking. And the one who’s victorious feels empty.

Hermione feels empty. Draco carried her to paradise when he crushed his lips against hers, and when he tore himself away—when he quit the game—she found herself falling from that cloud and tumbling back to earth—earth, which is resentful and cold and unexciting without him.

Her eyes are glued to the exact spot where he stood just a second ago. Her mind sprints in an infinite circle, jumping over obstacles and vaulting off of walls in the process. And the spirit of the kiss flutters and soars around her skull like a little bird, chirping and singing and reminding her of the way that Draco took her in his broad arms, swathed her in that soft, black jumper, and kissed her.

Yes, he kissed her. He planted his lips against hers with such thirst and desire. Dehydrated and aching for warmth, his tongue swiped over hers to quench his needs, and his hands—those lean fingers that felt like ice against her skin—stroked her waist, her hair, her cheeks, her neck. And she physically fell into him, and he caught her and brought her close. Saved her.

And then he apparated away.

And she doesn’t even know why.

Because if he felt the same things that she did when their mouths found one another, then why would he ever want to sever that connection?

Her thoughts run across her mind so fast that she realizes it’s only been one second since he apparated. How the fuck is it possible that she can process all of those things so bloody quickly? It’s like his hands are still on her, his lips are still painting impressions on her jaw, and his breath is still feeding her oxygen. It’s like he barely left.

But he did. _Fucking hell, Hermione. He left._

She’s in the process of turning around and leaving the bathroom because the pounding in her head and in the club is all too much to handle when, without warning, and much to her surprise, a violent gust of wind behind her fills her eardrums. Spinning on her glittery heels at the hint of the sound and almost tripping over herself in the process, Hermione’s eyes behold the atmosphere that denies Draco his escape.

Cruel and merciless is the air that Draco tries to maneuver through. It spits him right back out with a hearty, twisted laugh.

Draco looks down at himself first, and then his head tips up to stare at Hermione. There’s terror smeared in his eyes and fluster colored on the tips of his ears. His breath is heavy and staggered, lifting his chest up and down and contorting the tight fabric of his sweater. It’s as if he’s sprinted across the world in an attempted exodus only to return to the place that held him prisoner.

“What—what the _fuck_ —”

“Malfoy—”

Before Hermione can finish her sentence, Draco snaps his eyes closed and clenches his fists in an effort to apparate again. The same white mist consumes his body, and he twists into himself until there is nothing left. And she’s alone again—confused, bewildered, _pissed_.

But moments later, in the same fashion as before, the air rejects his plea and throws Draco back in the same spot, this time for more violently, as if to say, _you’re not going anywhere_.

Draco lands with a _thud_ on the floor of the bathroom. He steadies himself on his hands and knees, heaving loudly and running his fingers through his scruffy hair. Doe-eyed and baffled by the events—or lack thereof—Draco raises his eyes from the floor and looks at Hermione.

And she detects that he’s going to try to apparate again.

Hermione lunges forward.

Her hand seizes his right shoulder the moment he twirls into the vacuum of air.

It sucks both of them in, tangling their bodies together as they soar through space. Afraid to lose him in flight, Hermione grips his shoulder as tight as possible. Merging with him physically and mentally, she begs herself to land where he does.

It’s an all too dangerous game—apparating. Catastrophic when done wrong.

She grips the ball of his shoulder so tightly that, midflight, she hears a tear. And a muffled cry.

And then they collapse in Draco’s room, their bodies spluttering against the hardwood floor like rag dolls.

Hermione immediately rises to her hands and knees, desperate to collect her bearings after the fall. Because all she can think about is that scream—that blood-curdling, hair-raising cry, guttural and harsh and torture to her ears.

“Son of a _bitch_!”

She panics. Because as she turns on her hands and knees and witnesses Draco rocking back and forth, his back colliding over and over with the side of his bed and his left hand, wrapped around his right shoulder, turning red with blood, she realizes exactly what she’s done to him. 

“I could kill you, Granger,” he growls, shaking his head furiously. “I could—I could— _damnit_!”

Alarm occupies and sheathes her other senses as she stumbles around his outstretched legs to the right side of his body. Blood seeps through the sweater and onto his pale hand.

Hermione gasps, because the memory she has with splinching is too much to handle. Because she’s seen this before, and she panicked then, and she’s panicking now even more.

Her voice cracks. “Malfoy—”

“ _Damnit_ , Granger!” Draco bellows, biting his lower lip in pain. “Why would you do that? Huh? Why the fuck would you do that?”

Extending her right hand and clasping it above his, Hermione applies significant pressure to the wound. She compresses the space and interlocks their fingers, desperate to keep the blood from flowing too much. Draco’s clenches his teeth—practically meshing them together—and he emits a torturous groan.

“I’m so sorry,” she rasps, shaking her head as the feeling of his blood oozes through his sweater and onto her palm. It’s relentless—it flows like an inexorable river, branching out and dripping in all directions.

But she doesn’t have time to panic. Hermione Granger knows what to do. She’s seen this before. She’s gone through a war. She knows how to help. She knows what needs to be done.

It’s just that things feel so different with him, because she’s never felt this desperate to save someone before—and how on earth is that bloody possible? How is it that Draco Malfoy is the one she’s most desperate to save?

Immediately, Hermione’s mind shifts into gear.

“I need to take a look at it—”

“I can barely _move_ —”

“Would you rather bleed out, then? Potentially lose your arm?” she insists with haste.

Draco rolls his eyes and grumbles again, knocking his head back and staring at the ceiling.

She takes it as her cue.

“Hold your hand against it tightly,” she instructs, removing hers and shifting back a few inches. Through staggered and panicked breathing, her eyes course over his chest, desperate to find a way to get under his shirt—

“Fuck’s sake, Granger! Just rip the sweater!” he exclaims, his torso and legs beginning to writhe in pain.

She doesn’t need to be told twice. Hermione grips the neckline of Draco’s sweater in her hand, musters up all the strength she has in her arms, and tears the fabric right down the middle. It’s the adrenaline in her system mixed with a deep tenderness for him that allows her to pull the fabric apart—like a mother lifting a car for her child. Hermione seamlessly rips the threads of the sweater and drags the halves down his arms as carefully as possible.

And now that she can see the extent of the injury clearer, her anxiety escalates. There’s a cut—deep and long—that runs from the front of his shoulder to his back in an arch shape. And it’s located in the exact spot that her hand was gripping when they apparated. And so guilt surges through her body like a tornado, panic coupled with the storm like hail beating against her heart.

Thick and slow, his blood trickles in several directions—down his arm, down his back, down his chest, around his bicep. And it stains his tattoos in the most ominous and awful way because it covers up who he is. He’s lost under the agony that Hermione has inflicted upon him.

“I need…” Hermione starts, her breath slowing down as her eyes glue themselves to the injury, like a car wreck she can’t look away from. “My wand… I need my wand—”

“Just use mine,” Draco snaps, nudging his head towards his left leg.

She remembers the holster.

_You’re not the only one who feels safer with a wand on them at all times, Granger._

And she realizes that she didn’t have her wand on her tonight.

Hermione shifts over slightly, tugging her skirt down as she realizes that it’s riding up her thighs in a rather exposing manner. Then, she carefully leans over and lifts the leg of Draco’s slacks, and her eyes fall upon his wand fastened in the holster. She unlatches it from the strap and returns to his right in a matter of seconds, twirling it in her fingers to become acquainted with its magic, its feel, its soul.

Her curls fall frantically on her face, so she rapidly tucks them behind her ears and then lifts the wand to his wound. She mutters an incantation.

“ _Vulnera sanentur_.”

To stop the flow of blood.

“ _Vulnera sanentur_.”

To clean the wound and activate the healing process.

“ _Vulnera sanentur_.”

To stitch the wound shut.

And it happens as such: the flow of the blood that drips down his arm, his chest, and his back slowly starts to recede, like a waterfall traveling against gravity itself. The direction of the current switches and regresses back into the gash. And then the skin surrounding the laceration, like rock formations surrounding a canyon, inches closer and closer to one another until the halves find themselves in a much narrower divide, and finally there is only a thin scar present. And it’s fresh and red and enflamed, but it’s significantly improved.

Draco struggles to control his breathing, but it becomes easier when Hermione runs her fingers over the new scar.

Dittany. She needs Dittany to prevent scarring.

But it’s so rare. It’s so fucking rare, and what are the chances that they have Dittany in this apartment?

Dittany. She needs Dittany. She needs it—

“Dittany?” Malfoy asks, cocking an eyebrow.

Hermione realizes that she’s been mouthing the word. She does that often. Her teeth chatter and her fingers spasm and her lips move in the way the words sound. All born from her constantly anxious state of being.

“Blaise has some,” Draco grumbles, shifting his back up higher against the bed.

Hermione’s eyes widen, shocked that her complicated request might actually be fulfilled. “Really?”

“‘For emergencies only’ is what he says. Although I’d say this is an emergency, yeah?” Draco grits the last part, sarcasm coursing through each syllable.

She doesn’t heed him any further because in an instant, Hermione rises to her feet and rushes out of the room, across the apartment, and into Blaise’s room. Her eyes scan the space, searching for a bag, a chest—something that could hold medical supplies.

She locates a large, black, wooden chest atop a dresser. Lunging for it like her life—Draco’s life, truthfully—depends on it, she throws the lid open and scours the contents for a vial of Dittany. A small vial of brown liquid is lodged in a rack with other potions and antidotes, and she discerns that it’s the Dittany based on that color and the large ‘D’ that is carved into the head of the dropper. She yanks it out of place and simultaneously resolves to grab the spool of gauze in the chest as well. She knows the bleeding has stopped, but it’s to protect the scar from—

“Granger!”

His voice pulls her to him instantly. Her legs take off, rushing out of Blaise’s room as she juggles the contents in her hands. Halfway to the door, Hermione pauses and reaches for her heels, still strapped to her feet and causing too much pain in this moment—this moment that she needs to be with him. She frantically rips them off of her feet, then hears another, “Granger!” And there’s so much desperation in the voice that she whimpers out of fear.

The thoughts amalgamate in her head as she sprints for the door: _the charm didn’t work, he’s about to bleed out, he’s about to fucking die_ —

When Hermione charges through his room, she’s surprised to find Crookshanks prancing over Draco’s legs on the ground.

Draco looks paler than he’s ever been in his entire life, and it could be because of the trauma of the splinch, but Hermione deduces that it’s because her kneazle is treating Draco like his own personal jungle gym.

He looks up at her, mortified. “Granger, for fuck’s sake, get your bloody cat away from me.”

Hermione finds her breath and clears her throat as Crookshanks nestles against Draco’s right leg, his tail thumping against his thigh in a steady rhythm. 

“It’s a kneazle, actually—”

“Why do you always have to be such a know-it-all?” he mutters, dramatically tossing his head back onto the edge of his mattress.

“Why don’t you save your insults for a moment that I’m not saving your life, yeah?” she retorts, bending down and swooping her hand beneath Crookshanks to lift him from his spot and toss him lightly onto Adrian’s bed. He lands stealthily, spins in a circle, and settles right against the pillow. And then his beady little eyes stare at Draco as he snarls at the kneazle.

“If the _cat_ came any closer to me, I’d lose my other arm in a second.”

Hermione tsks. “You’re unbearable sometimes, you know that?”

“Good.”

“ _Good_?” Hermione repeats, her lips curved in disgust. She scoffs and screws the vial open. “I thought you were dying, or bleeding again, but you were just scared of my kneazle?”

“Oh, excuse me for undergoing a rather traumatizing experience with that orange demon during fourth year—”

“Maybe if you hadn’t been such an arsehole,” Hermione mutters under her breath as she unscrews the vial and inspects the dropper carefully.

It’s Draco’s turn to _tsk_.

Indignantly, Hermione settles her left hand against Draco’s bicep, her fingers matching the shape of the snake that coils around his arm perfectly. She takes a deep breath and holds the dropper over his cut. “Hold still,” she instructs.

Her fingers squeeze the rubber part of the dropper, discharging little drops of brown liquid from the tip. It seeps into his fresh scar. 

Draco grits his teeth again—bloody shocking that they haven’t fallen out of his mouth from all the pressure—and slams his left fist against the floor.

She sighs and bites her lower lip. “I know it’s painful. Just relax as much as you can.”

The Dittany stings his wound—sizzles and steams the slit in his arm—yet it doesn't compare to the way that Draco stares at her. She avoids his eye contact but can still feel his burning gaze on her. Her lips tremble and her eyes flutter as she tries to focus on the healing process. She fights the urge that festers within her to look up at him, unsure if she’d be able to handle that stare right now.

No. There’s no possible way she could handle it.

After the sizzling quiets, Hermione inserts the dropper back into the vial. Her fingers, latched around his bicep, trail the crimson stain of his skin delicately.

“I can clean the blood,” she offers quietly. “Do you have a washcloth?”

“There’s spare ones in the cabinet of the bathroom,” he responds, nodding his head in the direction of the door.

Hermione rises again, adjusts the _bloody_ skirt, and strides towards the bathroom. Once inside, she pulls open the doors of the cabinet below the sink, grabs a small, blue towel from a little basket, runs it under cold water, and returns to the room.

She kneels down once again and presses the cold towel to his arm, sensitively scrubbing the stained blood from his skin.

“You’re welcome,” she whispers with an eye roll.

“Oh, pardon me,” he starts, “I forgot to thank you for almost ripping my arm out of its socket. Forgive me, Granger, for my oversight— _fuck_!”

Hermione presses the towel upon his scar just a _tad_ too hard.

“Oops,” she mutters with a pop of her lips, followed by a victorious smirk.

“That fucking hurt,” he seethes, and Hermione begins to feel poorly about her dig.

“I know, I know. Just try to stay still for me. Don’t move your arm too much.”

“Easier said than done.”

“Well, just think of something other than your pain—”

Immediately, Hermione’s own mind flutters back to the kiss, and she wonders if his does the same.

And maybe it’s the way he ends up staring at her after she says it that confirms her suspicion. Because his lips are slightly parted now, as if they expect hers to mold to his in this moment. His eyes, dead set on hers, twinkle with a sliver of hope.

She wishes she didn’t look up at him in this moment. She could lean forward and kiss him again with that look.

But it’s not the right time, so she breaks eye contact and continues to clean his wound instead.

Daringly, Draco lifts his left hand to cup Hermione’s cheek. His fingers find the back of her head, wrapping themselves in her frenzied curls. And his thumb finds her lips in the same way she did earlier in the night.

Draco might’ve cupped her face, but it’s Hermione’s own volition that leads her to turn her head into his hand and meet his eyes yet again. She holds her breath as Draco lifts his back from the side of the bed and inches towards her face. Her fingers slacken. The towel drops onto his lap as Hermione enters a hypnotic state, all brought on by those eyes staring her down, preparing to devour her, preparing to adore her—

It’s the sound of the apartment door opening that brings them out of their daze.

“Malfoy? Granger? You here?”

Hermione gasps, her eyes widen, and she pulls away. The loss of Draco’s skin on hers is tormenting, but she forces herself to stop the moment, save it for another time, cherish the fact that they almost did it again.

She turns to face the door, watching as the others stumble into the apartment. Blaise turns first and he sighs in relief.

“Fucking hell,” he exhales, “We didn’t know where you were! We got to so worried. Adrian said that you two stormed off and didn’t come back. Are you alright? Where’s Malfoy?”

“We’re fine,” Hermione exhales as the others crowd around Blaise and trample towards the door. “He’s here.”

Theo cocks an eyebrow. “On the floor?”

“Well, there was a bit of an accident—”

The word sets a bomb off in Blaise. It’s the look in his eyes—like he’s heard the most terrifying news of his life—that catches the attention of Hermione. He immediately darts into the room, his legs striding with purpose and determination. When he sees Draco sitting between the two beds, alive, _breathing_ , he sighs in immense relief.

“What happened?” Blaise asks.

“I’m fine, mate.”

“He splinched when we apparated,” Hermione admits, holding her warm cheeks in the palms of her hands.

Adrian walks deeper into the room along with the others. He lifts an eyebrow. “Apparating accident? Now, why were you two _apparating_ —”

“ _Pucey_ —”

“What!” Adrian exclaims, throwing his hands in the air and smirking like he’s on the cusp of uncovering some clandestine affair. “That’s a valid question!”

“Well, it’s not really much of your business, is it?” Draco continues as Blaise bends down to inspect his shoulder.

“I used your Dittany,” Hermione confesses to Blaise, crossing her arms over her chest. “I’m sorry. I know it’s quite rare, but it was necessary.”

Blaise shakes his head and smiles at Hermione. “No worries. It’s there for a reason. You’ve done a fantastic job, Hermione.”

“Yes, well, I’ve seen it happen before,” she mutters, thinking about the time Ron splinched in the forest. She recalls the intensity of the situation—the desperation and anxiety and shame that overtook her body that day.

It doubled when it happened to Draco. And she asks herself again how the fuck that is possible.

“Must not have been that big of a splinch because it’s healing rather smoothly,” Blaise comments.

“‘Must not have been that big of a splinch’ my arse,” Draco retorts, nostrils flared and jaw clenched.

“Look at the bright side,” Adrian interjects. “You get to sport a sexy scar on your shoulder to match your other brooding qualities.”

“Ooh, that’s a fantastic new look for this one. It’ll also match his tattoos perfectly,” Pansy chimes in, leaning against the door frame and giggling with Daphne at her side.

Theo finds Hermione’s side and nudges her arm. “Something else, isn’t he, Granger?” he adds with a smirk.

“Alright, alright!” Daphne exclaims, pushing through the others and wrapping her hands around Blaise. “Show is over. Let the poor boy rest. I want to go to sleep before the crash hits.” She tugs Blaise’s arm, and he rises with her plea. “Come on, darling. He’ll be alright.”

As the others pile out of the room, Blaise addresses Draco before he exits: “If you need anything, you know I’ve got some antidotes that can help with the pain. Just let me know, mate.”

Draco offers a single nod.

And they finally exit, but not without Adrian winking at Hermione.

Closing the door, Hermione can feel the tension rise again. Heat the room like a sauna. And she can feel Draco staring at her, so she turns slowly and reaches his eyes with her own.

He struggles to rise to his feet, but eventually he stands, exhaling as he finds his bearings.

She steps forward and reaches for the gauze. “One last thing,” she insists, unspooling the roll in her hands before even reaching him.

“I don’t need that—”

“Your wound should be covered—”

Draco’s hands swathes Hermione’s, and she stops playing with the gauze.

“Just go to bed, Granger,” he whispers, taking the gauze from her hand and then letting go.

And there’s that feeling again—it tugs Hermione’s heart down into her stomach. It’s the knowledge that he’s pulling away, that he can’t stand their closeness, that he doesn’t know what to say or how to feel.

He stumbles past her and walks out the door, closing it gently on his way out.

And for once, she listens to him.

And it’s hard—almost impossible—but she can’t risk pushing it. She’d tread the waters for now, because earlier tonight she’d swam so deep into the sea. Almost drowned. Draco took her breath and filled his lungs with it to the point of no return for her. 

So instead, she suffocates on the silence. It’s the best she can get.

Maybe tomorrow, she could find water again.

-

It’s not an influx of water that wakes her up. Not the taste of seawater, not the sound of waves crashing, and certainly not the feeling of suffocating on a liquid that is both bitter and sweet at the same time.

No. It’s a knock at the door.

Her eyes open. Hermione realizes that she’s been sleeping on her right shoulder, which is not normally the position that she sleeps in. She prefers her left shoulder, or on her back. But she slept on her right last night, and she did it for him. She did it to face him. 

Draco lies on his left shoulder, eyes closed. Facing her. Asleep.

_Thank Merlin._

Another knock draws her from her daze, and she hurriedly steps out of bed and tiptoes to the door. She's attentive, _desperate_ to not wake Draco up. Because she knows how hard it is for him to sleep, and she can’t bear waking him from something that looks so peaceful.

She carefully turns the handle, opens the door, and sees Adrian standing in the threshold.

“Morning, Granger,” he whispers with a hoarse voice. “Sorry to wake you, but… erm… you’ve got a visitor.”

“A visitor?”

“Yes, well, I wouldn’t have bothered to wake you up if it wasn’t important. But it seems keen to speak with you.”

Hermione furrows her eyebrows as she follows Adrian out of the door and into the living room. And then she understands, because perched in the middle of the two couches is a stag, blue and white and radiant in the morning rays of sun that seep through the window. It practically sparkles.

“Oh, it’s Harry,” Hermione exhales, crossing her arms over chest and stepping towards the Patronus.

“Potter?” Adrian confirms.

Hermione turns her head and nods. And then the message relays, and it’s succinct yet everything that Hermione has been waiting to hear:

_Hermione,_

_There are some things we need to talk about with regards to your boss. Might you be able to stop by Hogwarts today? It’s better to show you._

Hermione glances over her shoulder at Adrian, who cocks an eyebrow.

“Erm,” she mutters, gulping and turning back to the Patronus. “Yes. Of course. I’ll come by very soon. I’ll be in the courtyard.”

With the message in tow, the stag turns, prances through the window, and disappears.

“So, you’ve told Potter about Aberfield?”

Hesitantly, Hermione turns on her heels and nods. “I needed help figuring a few things out, and… well… Harry offered.”

Adrian’s jaw tenses.

“Are you angry?” Hermione asks.

He shakes his head, and the panic that Hermione built up dissipates. “No, no, Granger. I just… didn’t think he’d be interested in helping us.”

“Harry is very compassionate,” Hermione explains. “He’s offered to help in whatever way he can.”

“How about I join you for your little excursion to Hogwarts?”

“Really? You want to?”

“Absolutely,” Adrian answers, seating himself on the arm of the couch and folding his hands in his lap. “Would be nice to see the school grounds again. Nicer to learn more about Aberfield. And most nice to see the Chosen One in his prime.”

Hermione snickers and rolls her head. “I’ll pretend I have no idea what you mean by that.”

“Mm, I love our little hidden language, Granger,” Adrian teases, gesturing his index finger between the two of them and winking for good measure.

“Let me just go warn Malfoy that we’re leaving for a bit,” Hermione says with a lip bite, and as soon as her teeth chew down on her plush lips, it’s like she’s been transported back to that moment she left a few days ago, and all that plays in her head is the way he couldn’t watch her leave.

“Lay it on him easy, yeah?” Adrian suggests.

Hermione nods, her suspicion confirmed.

“Did you two…” Adrian shifts his torso left to right in a little dance, “Have an enjoyable evening?”

A scoff escapes her mouth. There’s no point in lying anymore. No point in sugar-coating the situation. Things are out in the open; Hermione’s words should reflect that.

“There was… some progress made.”

Adrian flattens his lips, nods his head, and shrugs. “I’ll take it,” he mutters. “Now, go say goodbye to your boyfriend.”

Hermione steps past him and playfully punches his arm with her fist.

“Aye!” he gasps, gripping his bicep. “Save that playfulness for the dragon chamber, Granger. It gets hot in there really quickly, but you might already know all about that—”

“You are relentless, aren’t you?” Hermione exasperates with a giggle, her hand wrapping around the metal knob of the door to Draco’s room.

In typical Adrian fashion, he stretches his arms to the side and shrugs. “Can’t help myself.”

Hermione twists the handle and dips into the room.

To her surprise, Draco is awake, sitting on the side of his bed and massaging his upper bicep. He plays with the gauze on his arm—Hermione assumes he must have applied it himself last night when he left the room.

She closes the door and steps towards him. “Are you alright?” she asks. 

“Fine,” he mutters, his throat still spellbound by the kiss of sleep. “Still hurts quite a bit.”

It’s bold of her, but she sits next to Draco on his bed—bends her left knee and hangs her right leg off the bed as she looks closely at his shoulder.

“I just want to let you know that I’m going to see Harry for a bit. Adrian is coming, and we’ll be back soon.”

Draco nods, staring forward. “Okay.”

“I just thought you should know for sure that I’m returning very soon.”

He rubs his sleep-stained eyes and nods.

Hermione tilts her head. “Did you sleep much last night?”

“No.”

“You should try to get some rest.”

“It’s too hard.”

She chews on the inside of her cheek, sucking and thinking about how she can help, how she can bring him peace.

“Have you ever thought of using a Sleeping Charm?”

Draco creases his eyebrows as he turns to face her, yet his eyes light up with curiosity. “No, actually, I haven’t.”

She purses her lips, because the way he’s looking at her right now is so tempting, so inviting, so breathtakingly perfect. And yet she finds it so difficult for her body to move forward.

“I can help cast one, if you’d like. You… you need to sleep. _Really_ sleep.”

Before Draco can protest, Hermione rises and grabs Draco’s wand from his desk. She turns slowly and approaches him, standing right in front of his legs.

“Let me help you,” she repeats, her eyes pleading with him.

Reluctantly, Draco lifts his legs and dives under his covers. He stares up at the ceiling, swiping his hand over his face and exhaling.

Hermione meets the edge of his bed with her legs and hovers the wand over his head. She sways the wand in a zig-zag motion, and a violet mist spurs from the tip and clouds Draco. In seconds, his eyes flutter closed, and then he’s asleep. And he looks at peace—as much peace as one can hope for, anyway.

She briskly transfigures out of her pajamas into an outfit more appropriate for the excursion, sets Draco’s wand—hot with magic—back on his nightstand, and tiptoes out of the room. Crookshanks dips his head from under the covers of Adrian’s bed, meowing as Hermione approaches the door. She turns around, smiles sweetly, and slips through the door back into the living room.

As she does, she witnesses the last moments of Adrian snorting cocaine off the tip of his index finger.

She forgets sometimes how often they need it. How it’s not just a quick ritual that happens in a bathroom of a club. The smallest excursions in the world require it at this point. And that breaks her heart.

Adrian turns around and swipes his finger across his nostril. He’s dressed in black slacks and an indigo sweater, perfectly complementing his complexion and bringing out the color of his emerald eyes.

“You ready to go?”

Hermione nods as Adrian extends his hand. She takes it, feeling his warm and broad hand wrap around hers like a cocoon.

“Now, don’t go splinching me too, Granger, yeah?”

With a hearty laugh, Hermione squeezes his hand, and they spin into the air.

-

She doesn’t know why she’s so shocked to see the schoolground completely empty. It’s New Year’s Day—most students are at home, enjoying the holidays with their family. But there’s something about the desolate campus, the lack of noise, the drought of students and professors roaming the school that makes Hermione’s body shiver.

Everything seems unfamiliar in a way. She can’t place her finger on what it is.

“Deep in thought?” Adrian says, shaking her hand in his to drag her from her daydreams.

Hermione opens her mouth and looks up at Adrian. “It’s just strange being back.”

“I agree,” Adrian concedes. “It’s been quite a while since I’ve been back too.”

He stuffs his hands into his pocket and exhales out of his nose, taking in the sight of the school before him—the brilliance of the stonework, the illumination of the windows when the sun’s rays kiss the glass, and the stature of the spires flagging the numerous towers.

As they continue their observance of the schoolgrounds, Harry suddenly emerges from between two pillars of the cloister. He smiles brightly, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose and tumbling into Hermione’s arms for a hug.

“Welcome back, ‘Mione!” he cheers, closing his eyes and swinging her side to side.

Hermione giggles, the sound reminiscent of those days when they were just children here. It’s like the memories of those days find their way into her lungs to produce this splendid sound. “It’s wonderful to see you again, Harry!” she exclaims, pulling away and rubbing the sleeve of his ivory knit sweater with the palm of her hand. “Thank you so much for reaching out.”

“Of course. Anything for—”

Harry looks a little closer at Hermione, tilting his head and furrowing his eyebrows.

“Are you alright, ‘Mione?” he asks, the question dipped in subtle concern.

She smiles softly. “Yes, of course. Why? Is something wrong?”

“You just look quite tired—”

“Oh, she’s tired all right,” Adrian murmurs from behind Hermione. He crosses his arms over his chest and smirks at Harry. “Had an eventful evening, this one.”

Gazing over Hermione’s shoulder, Harry acknowledges Adrian with a subtle nod. “Pucey—”

“Ooh, you and I are still doing last names, are we?” Adrian teases, flicking his tongue across his top layer of teeth. He stretches his hand forward and offers Harry a handshake, to which Harry eventually succumbs. “Pleasure to see you again, _Potter_.”

Harry’s voice trembles as he shakes Adrian’s hands. “A pleasure, and no less,” he responds.

“Now, now, don’t flatter me too much, or I’ll have no choice but to fall madly in love with you,” Adrian chuckles.

Now, Hermione has caught on to Adrian’s mischievous banter, and so she laughs with delight at the insinuation. But Harry, completely unaware of what Adrian means by his comment, hangs his mouth open and quickly withdraws his hand. “I’m… well… erm… I’m with G-Ginny Weasley—”

Adrian leans forward and amicably shoves Harry’s shoulder. “Fuck’s sake, Potter. It’s a joke!” Then—just to see how far he can go—Adrian straps his hands upon Hermione’s shoulders, leans forward, and whispers, “So you’re not married, then?”

Hermione scoffs and covers her eyes with her fingers, shaking her head and laughing as she turns over her shoulder to chastise Adrian.

Harry’s eyes dart between them, as if he’s missing the joke. The tips of his ears turn pink, and his fingers twinge with uncertainty.

With a reassuring smile, Hermione says, “He’s just kidding, Harry. Where is Ginny, anyway?”

Harry’s chest rises and falls with mortification. “Oh, she’s quite busy,” Harry mumbles, adjusting his shoulders and cuffs of his sweater. “She came home for Christmas for a few days and then was right back out to traveling with the Harpies.”

“Already?”

Harry nods sullenly. “It’s difficult to get ahold of her because of all the traveling. But she’s happy, and so I am. I suppose… it would be better if we were happy together, though.”

Hermione frowns. She knows more than anything that Harry has an immense amount of love in his heart—love that deserves to be shared and valued. And Ginny is wonderfully breathtaking, kind, and important. But as she watches Harry glance at the ground and sniffle quietly, Hermione ultimately grasps the magnitude of the situation: Harry is lonely.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.

Shrugging, Harry crosses his arms over his chest and soaks in the warmth of the sweater. “It’s alright. We’re making it work.” With his arms still crossed, Harry gestures his left hand towards Hermione. “Anyway, I’ve done some digging and asking around about your boss. And there are actually a few things that McGonagall wants you to see.” 

The mention of the kind, old witch who supported her relentlessly through her time at Hogwarts breeds fireworks in Hermione's chest. “Is she here?” she asks with hope, her eyes twinkling at the sound of one of her mentors’ names. 

“Unfortunately, no.”

The fireworks die out.

“She’s taken a few days before the beginning of the term to travel. But she left me with this.” Harry reaches into the pocket of his brown slacks and pulls out a small, clear vial. With a raise of his eyebrow, Harry asks, “Fancy a trip to the Pensieve?”

Adrian clicks his tongue. “Are you taking me to the Headmistresses’ office already, Potter? Have I really been _that_ naughty?”

Harry points the vial at Adrian. “Right. I’m starting to figure you out a little better, Pucey.”

“You enjoying what you hear? _See_ , perhaps?”

Mouth agape, Harry exasperates and stumbles over his words. His mouth opens and shuts with discomfort, and then he subsequently spins on his heels and gestures them to follow him.

“Oh, Adrian,” Hermione whispers, trailing a foot behind Harry as he guides them through the familiar castle.

Adrian turns his head and winks down at her. “I can’t help myself. It’s the bloody Chosen One, Granger. Now, don’t be a cockblock—I’ve got to make a solid impression and get in there before Ginerva swoops back in.”

“I honestly can’t tell if you’re being serious or facetious anymore,” Hermione mutters.

Adrian shrugs as they turn a corner, the entrance to the Headmistresses’ Office in plain sight at the end of the corridor. “Why would I be facetious, Granger?”

“Well, you’re always joking about things.”

“Let’s just say,” Adrian murmurs, his eyes coursing over the back of Harry’s neck, “the Chosen One should be privy to my comedy, yes. But at the end of the day, honesty and sincerity lead to action which then leads to a lifetime of pleasure. And, Granger, I’m ready for some pleasure.”

-

McGonagall’s office doesn’t look much different than it did when Dumbledore was headmaster.

There are still dozens of trinkets scattered around the bookshelves and desks, books stacked upon tables, chairs, ledges—anywhere they can fit—and natural light slinking its way through the stained-glass window on the furthest wall.

And on the right side of the office, poking out of the wall, the Pensieve makes its way forth by Harry’s call. The dip of the stone basin glows in a murky blue hue, and within the opaque liquid, white mist spins and coils around the circumference, occasionally splintering and webbing into the center of the basin.

Hermione hovers her head over the basin. She can see her face clearly in the reflection.

“Careful, ‘Mione,” Harry warns, standing firmly at her side. “Just bend over slowly and be ready for a small descent. Everything will be alright.”

She looks to Harry on her left, then Adrian on her right.

“Relax, Granger. I’ll keep the Chosen One company whilst you’re on your little escapade.”

Hermione smiles, the tension in her shoulders subsiding as she glares back into the Pensieve. Lifting her heels off the ground and tilting her head in further, Hermione suddenly finds herself falling from the ceiling and landing on her feet in the Great Hall, just in front of the Professors’ table.

It’s just past midday—she can tell because the sun pokes through the west end of the hall and casts silhouettes and mirages of students studying and chatting. Others bustle around the pathways between tables, clutching their books and gossiping away with owl eyes and quick mouths. Hermione spins around, her eyes combing over each student, professor, and ghost that is gathered in the hall.

Facing the main entrance, Hermione catches sight of the individual in question.

He sits alone at the Slytherin table, his green robes swathing his slim figure like a mouse in a trench coat. Biting his nails and occasionally running his fingers through his jet-black hair, teenage Aberfield intently reads from a textbook. The red binding is tattered, as if it’s been heavily used in the past, exploited for its words and content and secrets.

Hermione suddenly feels a presence behind her.

“Quincy is still quite the recluse, Horace.”

It’s McGonagall. She knows the voice anywhere. Could pick it out of a room of thousands if necessary. For some odd reason, it reminds Hermione of gingerbread—it’s warm and comforting and representative of one of the gentlest people in her life.

Hermione turns on her heels and steps back one foot. McGonagall and Slughorn lean against the dining table, their eyes glued to Aberfield as he reads.

“He’s just a naturally quiet boy,” Slughorn responds, crossing the left flap of his tan robe over the right to cover his already growing belly. 

“It’s been six years of this. Do you think the war is affecting him in some distinctive way?”

Slughorn audibly sighs out of both confusion and exhaustion. “It’s affected everyone, Minerva. I suspect that Quincy’s natural shyness is the cause of his desolation. Poor boy has always been that way, ever since arriving at Hogwarts. I reason that it has to do with his upbringing, you know.”

Hermione furrows her eyebrows, listening intently.

“Poor thing,” McGonagall laments. “Parentless, cooped up in that dirty orphanage when Dumbledore found him. Completely unaware of his magical abilities. He just needs someone to look up to.”

“I’ve tried my best,” Slughorn responds.

“I know, Horace.”

“Several of my other students have tried to include him in their activities. Quidditch, clubs, apprenticeships with professors. I’m afraid, at this point it time, there’s not much else we can do to help him—what with the term coming to a close. And next year, he’ll be building his reputation in the world as he prepares to fly away from this school.”

“Is he ready?”

Slughorn sighs yet again. The conversation appears exhausting to him, like he’s done everything he can to combat Aberfield’s quietness.

“He is apt at many things. Excels in my class, among others. I do think he will be alright, but I think it’d be best if we keep a close eye on him.”

“And we will,” McGonagall replies, patting Slughorn’s shoulder and pacing forth. Hermione follows her down the pathway between two tables, watching Aberfield as she does.

The last thing Hermione sees before the scene fades is another boy, accompanied by his friends, walk behind Aberfield and shove his face into the book he reads. The student bends over and mouths something into Aberfield’s ear, and although she can’t hear it, Hermione knows exactly what he’s said.

It’s the way the word rolls off the tongue and through the lips. Hermione has studied the pattern of flicks and purses as the word is said. It’s engrained in her memory.

He called Aberfield a mudblood.

The Great Hall disappears, and Hermione finds herself floating through the air like a feather yet again. And then the colors change—morph into darker and browner tones—and she finds herself falling into the library.

Her eyes immediately find Aberfield, sitting at a table, reading from the Daily Prophet and consciously annotating the article.

Behind Hermione, McGonagall approaches the table. The witch watches Aberfield with worrisome eyes, her fingers trembling upon her emerald robe as she does so. Hermione curiously leans forward and peeks from across the square table to see what he is reading.

She catches the title of the article: _Two More Order Members Die at the Hands of Death Eaters._

And she sees the date: April 1981.

They’re in the height of the war.

Aberfield is underlining sections of the newspaper, starring and circling words, and tapping his quill against the mahogany table as he intently reads. His lips move with the text as he carefully discerns the main points of the passage.

McGonagall sighs and approaches his side.

“How are you today, Quincy?”

Aberfield glances up at McGonagall, his eyes wide with fear.

“Fine, Professor,” he says with a nod, his voice quivering ever so slightly. He scrambles for the newspaper and scrunches the paper up in his fist, creasing the parchment enough to conceal the content but also continue reading at a later time.

McGonagall tilts her head. “I didn’t mean to startle you,” she explains. “I just wanted to make sure you are doing alright. Many students are feeling quite flustered by this war. How are you coping? Would you like to come by my office for tea sometime? We can discuss your future—”

“I’m alright,” he rushes to say, reaching for his bag on the back of his chair and slinging it over his shoulder. “I should get going.” With a blunt nod, Aberfield darts around McGonagall and rushes out of the library.

And then it happens again. Another boy, inches taller than Quincy, shoves his shoulder and spits the same word in his face.

_Mudblood._

And as McGonagall scolds the boy takes two-hundred house points for his disgusting language, the Pensieve claims its time.

Hermione levitates into the air, the scene below her fading and turning cloudy under the magic. And suddenly she’s gasping for air as her head soars out of the basin.

She falls back, the sudden pressure change being a little too overwhelming for her, and a pair of lean arms catches her before he trips over her heels. Harry.

“Are you alright, Hermione?” Harry asks, and suddenly Adrian is at her side and gripping her arm as well. His large hand finds hers, steadying her quivering digits in his warmth.

“Sorry, yes,” she says, regaining her footing. The boys hold her tightly, only letting go when she nods her head in confirmation. “That’s an interesting feeling—coming back, I mean. The pressure change was really quite intense.”

Harry nods. “Yes, it’s not fun the first time. Believe me.”

“What did you see, Granger?” Adrian asks, the tone of his question pertinent and purposeful.

“It was some of McGonagall’s memories of Aberfield here at Hogwarts. He was a Slytherin. An orphan. A muggleborn.”

“Really?” Adrian asks, tilting his head.

Hermione nods. “And he seemed to have been bullied quite often for it. And he was always reading, taking notes, studying—just a generally quiet student.”

“Interesting, considering how much he bloody drones on about worthless bullshit at the meetings,” Adrian says with an eye roll.

Hermione sighs. “It was brief, but helpful beyond belief. You’ll have to tell McGonagall that I said thank you.”

Harry nods. “Of course.”

“Potter was explaining some of his other findings to me,” Adrian interjects, crossing his arms over his chest and raising his eyebrows at Harry, a cue to continue their conversation.

“Right, erm… Unfortunately, there’s nothing in any spell book that I’ve come across about what Aberfield calls a ‘Location Beam.’ It’s clearly his own spell,” Harry explains. “Now, has he registered it with the Ministry?”

Hermione shrugs, anger stirring through her nerves as she thinks about how discombobulated the Ministry has become. How invested in other affairs it has been recently. How uncompassionate and distracted and unfair it now is.

“I’m not sure. When I looked through the archives, I couldn’t find anything about it.”

“You’ve got to ask Kingsley,” Harry presses.

“Even if it wasn’t registered, Kingsley willfully let the Location Beams be implanted in them. What good will it do to ask whether it’s been registered or not?” Hermione asks.

“Archived spells often have detailed descriptions of what they are, exactly. If you can find that registration, maybe you will be able to understand the properties better. See if it really is exactly what he says it is.”

“Brilliant, Potter,” Adrian comments with a solemn nod.

Hermione joins the sentiment. “Absolutely. I’ll consult with Kingsley. I’ve seen the Location Beams in work, though, and it appears that it’s exactly what he’s said they are. But maybe there’s something hidden in it. Something darker and more mysterious that he’s not letting on about what exactly they do.”

“Worth a shot,” Harry shrugs.

Hermione exhales and leaps forward into Harry’s arms. She can’t help herself—with everything that he’s done for her, she feels obliged to remind him just how much he means to her.

“I can’t thank you enough, Harry,” she whispers.

Harry pulls away and smiles. “Anything for you, ‘Mione. You’ve saved my sorry arse more times than I’d like to admit. You can always count on me, I swear.”

Hermione steps back, and suddenly her shoulders are swathed in Adrian’s broad arms. He tugs her in for a side hug and smiles down at her. “Brilliant, isn’t she, Potter?”

“Deserving of the world, Pucey. Nothing less.” Harry’s comment is terse and almost snappy.

“Believe me,” Adrian starts, “We know. She’s helping us when no one else would.”

“That’s in her nature.”

“My point exactly.”

It’s like a competition between Harry and Adrian, both vying for Hermione’s approval and love. She’s unsure where the contention between them has come from, but she resolves to clear the air as quickly as possible.

Hermione reaches for Harry’s hand. “Harry, thank you again.”

“Whenever you need me, I’m here for you, ‘Mione.”

She smiles and looks up at Adrian. “We should get going.”

“Let me know if I can be of any more help,” Harry offers as Adrian reaches for Hermione’s hand.

“Ah, Potter. So noble and thoughtful. Glad to see those traits have stuck.”

“And I’m glad to see you’re as comedic as ever, Pucey.”

Adrian clicks his tongue on his mouth and winks. “The Ministry can take my freedom, my autonomy, and whatever else they want. But my sense of humor? That comes with me all the way to my grave. Make no mistake—I, Adrian Pucey, will always be the king of comedy.”

Then Adrian leans forward, his face lingering a foot away from Harry’s. With their significant height difference, Adrian’s eyes peer down at Harry in the most cheeky and bold glare. “I don’t charge for comedy shows, either. So, if you’d ever like a front row seat, you know where to find me.”

Harry’s stupefied expression is the last thing Hermione sees before they apparate away.

-

_Tonight will be different._

That’s what Daphne said to Hermione later that day as they lounged on the couches and soaked in their last day of freedom before returning to the Ministry.

“Draco will open up,” she had whispered to Hermione while stroking Crookshanks’ soft fur. “I know we keep asking you to give him a chance, but he’s getting there. Tonight will be different.”

So when night falls and the group retreats to their rooms for the evening, Hermione feels her stomach twirl and contract like a hurricane. She searches for the eye of the storm in the mirror of the bathroom, tossing cold water onto her face, breathing heavily, and preparing for another night in the room with him. A room where they’re only feet away when, ideally, they should only be a breath apart.

Sauntering back into the room, Hermione notices Draco sitting on the side of his bed, twisting his shoulder, adjusting it, trying to find some peace from the pain—pain that she brought upon him.

She shuts the door and boldly asks, “Can I get you anything for that?”

Draco looks up at her, his hand freezing upon his shoulder. He turns his head to the left and gestures to a small vial of clear liquid on his desk.

“Blaise said that would help with the pain. I just need to apply some to the scar.”

Hermione makes her way between the beds and takes the small vial in her hand. She turns to face Draco, standing dangerously close to the space between his legs.

“Could you… erm…”

She points to his torso—the shirt, more specifically.

Carefully, Draco uses his left hand to slip the shirt off of his body. Hermione is shocked at how effortlessly he removes the top—it seems to just slip right off of his figure in the most satisfying and brisk way.

Her eyes glue to his, because she’s tempted beyond belief to stare at his tattoos.

“It would be easier if you sit against the headboard.”

Draco accedes to her request, lifting his legs off of the ground and stretching them across his bed. He shifts his back against the headboard, and Hermione, bold and daring and tired of playing their passive game, climbs onto his bed and flags to his right. She unlatches the dropper from the vial and begins to cautiously apply the liquid to his scar.

Draco grits his teeth in discomfort.

“Sorry,” she whispers, steadying his arm with her free hand, her fingers setting against his skin as delicately as possible. “For a lot of things.”

Draco cranes his neck to look at her.

She fights the urge to look at those eyes, but _oh_ it’s so bloody difficult. Because they have this intrinsic power to them where their luster begs people to pay attention, and one fucking look into them feels like the world is a brighter place.

Hermione clears her throat. “I’m going to start rambling, like I normally do. And I don’t want you to stop me. Because there are several things that I need to get off my chest, okay?”

And she thinks he’s going to reprove her—because that’s what he normally does—but instead he replies, “Okay.”

She sprints with the opportunity presented in fear that he’ll revoke it in a moment.

“I’m still trying to figure out how to talk to you. How to help you. How to be there for you. Because the others seem quite receptive, but for some reason you’re pushing back.” She pauses. “I can’t imagine it actually has anything to do with how we once acted towards one another. How we hated each other. It can’t be that anymore. I know it.”

Draco lets her talk, because her voice is like medicine to him.

“And maybe it never was that in the first place. Or, at least, we grew out of it sooner than we thought. Because… I don’t hate you. I can’t. How on earth can I hate you or any of your friends when you all have given me something so wonderful? When you’ve all given me another home, another family, another reason to live and work and breathe?”

Hermione catches her breath, and he still doesn’t say a word.

“I want to help you. But I feel torn between doing that and also being everyone’s friend. Because those nights that I’m with you all are some of the most fun and authentic and enjoyable nights I’ve ever had. And as much as I want you to all be okay, I’m worried that… that I’ll lose you all… should this end. I don’t even know _how_ this is going to end, and that’s another frustrating part, you see. It’s that I am so confused and lost and frustrated with the world for throwing you away and for continuing to ignore you all. Because you don’t deserve that. You deserve someone who will care about you. Take care of you. Treat you like a human. And I—”

“You talk way too much, Granger.”

She scoffs. “Yes, I know. I have a problem with silence. And with rambling about things that make no sense.”

Shutting the vial and turning it in her hand, Hermione looks up for a brief moment to find his eyes. And, _fuck_ , she’s glued to them now, and she fights the urge to lean forward and finish what they started—plant her lips on his again and taste his soul as it slips through his swollen, rouge lips.

“I just don’t know when to stop talking.”

Through the pain of shifting his right arm too much, Draco manages to place his hand on Hermione’s bare leg. The sensation that courses through her thigh and into her stomach is sharp and soft at the same time, and she feels her breath hitch in her throat as the tips of his fingers bend and squeeze ever so slightly.

“Now. Now would be a good time.”

She parts her lips to let out a shaky breath.

“I have a lot of trouble controlling my mouth,” she mutters, hoping her insinuation is enough to convey exactly how she feels.

Draco’s chest falls in an exhale as he licks his bottom lip, dragging his tongue over it slowly.

“So do I.”

With his left hand, Draco reaches across his body, finds Hermione’s right leg, and swings it over his lower half.

She straddles him, scaling his body with hers until she plants herself firmly upon him. Her hands instinctively find his neck, and she gently paints stars with her fingertips and draws cascades upon the beating pulse of his neck.

And he leans forward to connect their foreheads while simultaneously running his hands up and down her thighs, tracing her silk skin with his gentle caresses.

“I think…” Draco starts, “If you know what’s good for you, then you’ll use that mouth for something other than talking.”

The tips of their noses touch.

Hermione wants nothing more than to listen to him. To kiss him again and feel the dips of his body upon hers. But there’s fear clouding her vision—and she tries to close her eyes to dispel the thoughts of him pulling away, but it’s so difficult to concentrate when his breath meets her skin.

“How do I know you won’t pull away like last night?” she whispers.

With his left hand, Draco lifts her chin, coaxing Hermione to open her eyes and fall victim to the luster, the glow of the night sky in his irises, yet again.

“Because I want to experience what it’s like to not feel pain again.”

He licks his lips—an invitation.

“And because—yes—splinching was painful. The mark is painful. The drugs are painful. But nothing compares to the moment I tore myself away from you.”

This time, it’s Hermione who leans forward, who instigates the connection of their lips. Her lips graze upon his, softly. With delicacy. _Immense_ delicacy. A ghost of their kiss the night before.

And then she deepens the kiss ever so slightly.

Draco reciprocates, letting the breath caught in his chest fall out in a sigh against her lips.

The kiss is soft, defined by nothing more than a reminder of the night before. It’s just their lips connecting, testing the waters, truly defining whether or not they mold as well as they both thought.

But when Draco parts his lips to engage her more, Hermione feels her stomach drop and her lungs practically collapse. Her head tilts to the left as she presses herself against him further, creating a steady rhythm to the kiss, one that Hermione’s breath tries to keep up with.

His hand on her thigh flattens, and he runs his palm up the side of her skin until it reaches her waist, and then it jumps onto the back of her head. His fingers plunge into her messy curls, and using his hand, he guides her towards him more.

Hermione can’t help but dive into him, shift her hips higher upon him so that her chest presses against his. His skin feels like ice, but his breath feels like fire, and she simultaneously drowns and burns in the way he pulls her close to him. 

One of her hands falls to his chest, and again she can feel his heart leap from his ribcage in staggered beats, like a drum that is off course from the rest of the orchestra. And normally the off-beat rhythm would throw the world into turmoil—would disturb the very music they intend to create—but neither one seems to care about their involvement in that catastrophe. Music is subjective. 

Their lips begin to pulse with more speed, heads twisting and adjusting to explore one another a little deeper. Taste, feel, discover.

Possibly with too much force, Hermione drives Draco’s back to collide with the headboard. He flinches in pain for a moment as she continues to kiss him, but soon after he’s back to dropping his left arm to wrap around her back and shift her even closer to his center.

Hermione’s hips roll once upon him, and she winces at the feeling that swelters in her core. Underneath her kiss, she can feel Draco’s mouth tense and then relax, as if she’s unlocked and set free another part of him.

His right hand tries to grip her leg, but he cringes at the pain still present in his arm.

Hermione pulls away for a moment while Draco attempts to put on a brave face. He pants quietly, struggling to advert his focus from the pain in his arm to the medicine from Hermione’s lips.

Medicine that she decides to use further.

Hermione leans down to kiss the scar on Draco’s shoulder.

And when she pulls away and grabs his eye contact, she quietly asks, “Novocaine?”

“Novocaine,” he responds before crashing his lips into hers again.

And there goes her breath. Because every time that Draco sucks on her bottom lip, breathes into her mouth, and showers her with fervent kisses, he simultaneously steals her ability to breathe. Takes it for himself—just like he should—and uses it to revitalize his own depraved lungs.

To catch her breath—because it’s truly all over the place—Hermione pulls away again. She feels Draco’s fingers tighten around her waist and leg, like he’s about to lose her. Like he’ll do absolutely anything to stay attached to her.

Hermione’s thumb finds his cheek, rubbing his blushed skin delicately. “I’m not going anywhere, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Draco exhales in a manner that attempts to mask his relief. But it’s written in his eyes, painted on his cherry lips, and sewn into her through his fingers—he can’t let her go.

Before she can reach his lips again, Draco drops his head and places his crown against her chest. She’s shocked and worried by the act, fearing that he’s about to pull himself away again, even when he promised that he wouldn’t. Her hands touch the side of his head, her fingers stroking his icy hair.

“What?” she asks, desperation in her voice. “What is it that you want? I need you to… talk to me.”

Draco exhales out of his nose. “I can’t… put you… in this _fucking_ position.”

Hermione cups his cheeks and lifts his face to hers. “What position?”

He inhales through his nose and grits his teeth.

“What? What position?” she asks again, bursting at her seams to guide the answer out of him.

But Draco remains silent, fighting with every bone in his body to relax himself.

“Okay, okay,” Hermione says reassuringly, stroking his cheek with her thumb. “Let’s not talk about it. I can wait.”

In frustration, Draco knocks his head against the headboard. He looks up at the ceiling, pursing his lips and struggling to speak.

Hermione finds the strength to dismount him and sit back at his right side. And she wants to dip her head into the crook between his shoulder and neck, but it’s the same shoulder that she almost tore from him body. And there’s no need for more pain, more discomfort, and more agony. She’ll do anything to keep him from running away.

Instead, to remind him that she won’t abandon him, Hermione places her hand upon his and rubs her thumb against the back of his palm.

“You’re with us, right?”

His voice. Calm and soft and quiet like the night.

Hermione looks at Draco, and he matches her eye contact.

She sighs in relief as he repeats himself: “Tomorrow, when we go back. You’re with us?”

Nodding, she answers, “I’m with you. I swear.”

“If you’re really with us,” he whispers, “Then you’ve got to help us get out. Because that fucker is killing us. I know he is.”

She has the urge to look away because owning up to her mistakes is the hardest thing Hermione Granger has to do. She’s always struggled with it—and maybe it’s because the world expects her to be perfect, even as it falls apart around her. It assumes she’ll remain as strong and conscious as everyone else—solve the mystery, save everyone, be happy forever.

But that’s a feat even Hermione can’t fathom. She’s allowed to fall apart with the world sometimes—isn’t she?

“You’re not going to die. None of you are. I promise,” she says.

And Hermione knows that she has broken promises before. But this one—this one she swears on her own soul that she’ll keep. She’ll stow it in her heart and wrap it around her bones if she has to.

Minutes later—it’s all a blur how it happens, really—Hermione finds herself lying comfortably in Draco’s bed, underneath his covers, just to his right. She would give anything to turn over and lie upon his shoulder, trace his chest with her finger, soak in his warmth and repeatedly remind him that she is here.

But the thought of physically hurting him more than she already has stops her from doing so.

So, for now, her presence is enough.

It’s enough to make Draco finally sleep.

Because with her next to him, just a breath away, he can finally relax in the promise of some form of peace.

And tomorrow, when they return to the meetings, he’ll undoubtedly feel the exact same way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kissing scars is my favorite thing :'( 
> 
> if you enjoy my writing, please check out my other dramione fic that I am writing called NightCrawlers!! Heed the trigger warnings if you decide to read--it will be very dark. 
> 
> thank you all for your support <3


	23. Chapter 23

A Ukrainian Ironbelly.

Hermione is convinced that’s what her eyes are beholding as they open the following morning.

She’s certain for two reasons.

The first reason is that she recalls how highly Charlie Weasley once spoke of the dragon. She’d gone to the Burrow last summer for a large dinner party; while she was there, she fell into an emotionally driven conversation with Charlie, who was home from Romania for a few weeks. He rambled on and on about the Ukrainian Ironbelly—its elongated snout, its curved scales and sharp spikes lining its back, its pleated wings, and its glossy white disposition. And there was such passion rooted in his ember eyes and plastered behind the freckles of his rosy cheeks that Hermione swore she would never disremember his delight in the topic.

The second reason is that she remembers flying out of Gringotts on one—gripping those same tall spikes with Harry and Ron as they held on for dear life and soared through the cloudy sky of that fateful day hunting Horcruxes. She recalls the exhilarating feeling of it all, coupled with utter terror. All too similar feelings.

And there it is—the Ukrainian Ironbelly—painted on Draco’s back like an absolute masterpiece, something straight from the hands of van Gogh or da Vinci themselves.

She finally understands how the tattoo is designed. Its tail coils around the front of his shoulder, and then its long, skinny body dips down onto his back. Wings outstretched across his shoulder blades and mouth wide open upon Draco’s lower back, the dragon appears ready for a war. Prepared to strike down anyone or anything that comes near it. Kill whatever even looks in the direction of what it serves to defend.

It stares Hermione down, and she doesn’t know whether she’s the future victim or the damsel it’s been sworn to protect.

It’s the break of morning, and Hermione knows this because the sun pokes through the window in an inviting fashion, and it strikes Draco’s back with diligent luminosity that she swears the dragon comes alive with each breath he takes.

She cautiously lifts her torso off of the bed, twisting exerting the weight of her body on her left forearm. Her sudden movement triggers Draco to rotate his head to look down and over his left shoulder at her. 

Draco’s gaze sends shivers slowly crawling down her back. Her gut tenses. It’s the coupling of the dark bags under his tired eyes and the hollowness of his cheekbones that disturbs her. But then it’s also the thing that keeps her going. It’s her reason for staying, for sleeping in his bed. Because underneath the exhaustion, the fatigue, and the pain, there is a person begging to be set free from the chains of humanity’s most overwhelming feeling—loneliness.

And how can she possibly ignore the cry in his glimmering eyes? She can’t—she simply won’t.

The way he opens his mouth reminds her of a built-up melody, and the climax of the song roars when he finally speaks.

“We’re leaving soon. For the ministry.”

Is it possible to hate the tune but adore the singer? Because that's how Hermione feels. Those words sting, but that voice soothes. 

And Hermione can practically feel the heat of his dread. It’s like she’s being smothered by her own responsibilities and duties while simultaneously tossing water on the rolling fire. And it burns and scorches and destroys everything tangible to her, no matter how hard she tries to oppress the flames. No matter how hard she tries to save him.

She lifts herself up further and leans her back against the headboard. Taking a deep breath, she looks at Draco and asks, “Are you alright?”

Avoiding eye contact, Draco stabs the inside of his cheek with his tongue and shrugs.

In the past, Hermione has avoided offering her physical touch to Draco as a way to calm his nerves. It was clear then that he didn’t want it, and as much as Hermione wished she could wrap her arms around him and hold him close as a sign of her solidarity, she knew he would’ve squirmed and groaned at the gesture. 

But now, she can’t help herself. Can’t stop the signal rushing from her brain to her hand.

Her right hand settles upon Draco’s left shoulder, sheathing the tail of the dragon. And her thumb, with immeasurable grace, slides up and down his smooth skin. Cherishes it. Revitalizes the emptiness that lingers below. Fires doses of novocaine straight into his system.

The only part of Draco that moves is his chest. It lifts up and down, working in the way it was designed. Yet, in another sense, it’s as if it’s been rewired. Or maybe found its true rhythm.

Hermione unseals her tightened lips to speak. “I’m going to have a conversation with him today.”

“Aberfield?” Draco asks, lifting his eyebrows in resentment.

“Kingsley.”

Draco cranes his head and lifts his eyes to catch hers.

“What are you going to say to him?”

Hermione inhales through her nostrils. Her thumb continues to dance on his shoulder—he lets it happen.

“Anything I have to say in order to make this better.”

She can see him moving his tongue in his mouth, as if he’s contemplating saying something. He turns back to stare at the floorboards, tracing the pattern of the wood with his eyes.

_Please say it_ , she thinks to herself. _Please say whatever you want to say._

“Don’t go saying anything too outlandish,” he mutters.

Hermione tilts her head. “Why not? He should know exactly how I feel.”

He smiles with a brief huff. “If you get fired, we’re fucking screwed. So, don’t get fired.”

And then his eyes lift from the floorboards and seize hers again.

_Lean in_ , she urges herself. _Lean in and kiss him again for fuck’s sake._

Just as she lifts her back off of the headboard, Draco swivels his head away.

“I’ll let you get dressed.”

He rises from his bed, walks to the dresser shoved against the opposite wall, pulls out a black shirt and a pair of black slacks, and leaves the room, all in what feels like one torturous moment. One blink of an eye and he’s gone again.

Hermione sighs, climbing out of his bed and reaching for her duffel bag settled at the foot of Adrian’s bed. After she removes her wand and changes into an appropriate outfit for work, Hermione too exits the room.

They’re all awake and gathered in the living room already. And like yesterday, Hermione witnesses the last moments of Theo and Pansy snorting tiny piles of cocaine off of the tip of their index fingers. Daphne has her thumb and index finger squeezing the bridge of her perky nose, Blaise rubs his eyes and clears his chest, Adrian plays with something in the pocket of his pants, and Draco, all dressed in his day clothes, fidgets with his fingers like an itch he can’t scratch.

When Theo’s eyes glaze over the shoulders of the group and land on Hermione standing in the doorway, he quickly shoves the baggie into the pocket of his pants and clears his throat.

“Morning, Granger!” he greets with a smile. “How are you feeling?”

Hermione steps towards them, coaxed by the smiles on their faces. “I’m alright. You?”

Theo shrugs nonchalantly. “I’ve been more excited about other things, truthfully.”

“Haven’t we all?” Blaise adds with an exhausted grin.

“We should get going,” Daphne says, wrapping her hand around Blaise’s forearm. “It’s quarter ‘til, and I suspect Hermione has to be at work relatively early.”

“It’s alright,” Hermione responds, a cheeky smile growing on her face. “I hate my boss, anyway.”

Adrian laughs, the melodious intones a breath of fresh air. “Words I never thought I’d hear out of Ms. Granger’s mouth, ladies and gentlemen!”

Hermione chuckles. “I’m actually planning on having a word with Kingsley when we arrive. But it’ll be quick. I’ll meet you back at the seminar room once I’m done.”

“You going to try to liberate us from this prison, Golden Girl?” Theo asks.

“I’ll certainly try.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” Theo responds with a nod and a wink. He takes Pansy’s hand in his and kisses the side of her head like it’s the most special part of his day. “Right, come on. Let’s get this day over with, yeah? One day at a time ‘til freedom comes again.”

“Are you alright to apparate, Draco?” Daphne asks, her eyes filled with worry as Blaise takes her hand in his.

Draco nods in her direction. “It’ll be fine, Daph.”

“I just don’t want you to get hurt any further.”

“I’ll be alright,” he answers reassuringly, followed by a soft smile. Daphne sighs and nods.

“Just keep those hands away from Granger while apparating, yeah?” Adrian teases, pointing to Draco’s hands. “Or will that be too difficult?”

Theo audibly snorts and digs his head into Pansy’s shoulder as a means of concealing his laughter.

Draco runs his tongue across the top layer of his teeth as Hermione awaits his response.

“Jealous, Pucey?” he replies, cocking an eyebrow.

Adrian’s jaw drops, allowing for a colossal smile to form on his face. “Quite jealous, actually! Now that you bring it up!”

The eyes of the group dance between Draco and Hermione like they are reading their minds. Like what they’ve done is written on both their foreheads in bright red ink.

And so Hermione bites her lower lip to mask the smile that develops because she’ll do anything to keep Draco comfortable. To keep him close and open and willing to accept the perplexing thing between them—the bond, the connection, the string. To dismember it now would be fatal.

Daphne, keen and perceptive as ever, interjects on Draco’s behalf, though truthfully, he doesn’t appear as uncomfortable with the insinuations as usual.

“Let’s just get going,” she says, tugging Blaise’s arm.

One by one, the Slytherins apparate. Right before he goes, Adrian salutes Draco and Hermione, and then they watch as the air blankets him in its glory and transports him somewhere else.

The two remain, the silence only interrupted by the light tosses of Crookshanks in his bed near the window.

Hermione slowly looks up at Draco; he’s already gazing at her. She lifts the corner of her mouth in a heartening smile.

“Everything will be alright—”

He kisses her. Grips her arms with his hands. Cuts off her words and supplies her with his lips as a preemptive response to her anticipated kindness. And she can feel his mouth tense as if he’s in some sort of pain. She assumes it’s the tension in his shoulder from the way his fingers tentatively wrap around her bicep, but that doesn’t stop her from receiving every ounce of gratitude he gives.

The removal of his lips is like someone has stolen her breath. But when he subsequently places his forehead against hers, Hermione understands how lungs are supposed to work yet again.

“Give me your hand,” he whispers.

Hermione opens her eyes and gazes at him. “Are you sure? Last time we did this together, I almost tore your arm off—”

Draco cuts her off by seizing her hand and swathing it in his. “Let’s not fight this, Granger.”

The instant she squeezes his hand, the air captures their bodies.

When they land on their feet in the ministry and jog to join the rest of the group already a few paces ahead, Hermione doesn’t let go of his hand. She grips it with purpose; it’s not even an option to let go, not even fucking feasible.

She isn’t even bothered with who sees it—and people do see it.

It feels like they’re walking through the snow in Hogsmeade again.

Because there’s joy present in the direct friend group—glee in their pocket of camaraderie which they’ve created and fostered. But outside of this group, Hermione perceives intolerable animosity from the other ministry workers who march past them, briefcases swinging and eyes rolling with distaste.

The workers glare at the group like they should be anywhere but here. They taunt, sneer, and one of them even spits in their direction, and Hermione finds herself side-stepping the trajectory of the saliva right before it hits her shoe.

Someone actually _spit_ at them.

Hermione can hardly comprehend it.

Draco’s hand leaves hers, and for a moment she feels vacant. It’s not until his hand tugs her waist towards him and she’s being maneuvered to the inside of the circle that Hermione realizes that Draco has positioned himself on the outside of the group. The target, if need be.

And he glues his hand to her lower back. It’s clandestine enough that nobody draws attention to it, but Hermione perceives his presence all too well. His fingertips fastened on her back shoot uncalculated levels of dopamine through her system, and her stomach clenches at the memory, the imprint, the memorial of his hands on her back last night. This one simple touch, powerful enough to conjure those memories and feelings and sensations, draws her under his metaphorical wings.

And she realizes that she _might_ just be the thing the dragon has given its life to protect.

He glares at anyone that looks their way. Flares his nostrils and invokes tall, red flames to counteract his piercing grey eyes. Latches his hand firmly against the dip of her lower back as a reminder to Hermione of her armor.

Before they depart for the fifth floor, Hermione peels off to meet with Kingsley.

“I’ll just be a few minutes,” she explains to the group.

“Give him hell, Hermione,” Blaise advises with a playful smile.

_Give him hell_ she repeats to herself as she marches through the ministry and stations herself outside of Kingsley’s russet door moments later.

As nervous as she feels, Hermione recognizes the imperativeness of this conversation, the desperate need to strike her nerves down and repress the panic building in her chest. If she could just lift her hand to the door and knock—

She knocks intuitively. Thumps her fist against the door three times and waits for a response.

And when she doesn’t receive an answer, she knocks again with more urgency.

But there’s still no response.

She curses her impatient nature as she opens the door and pokes her head inside the office.

Behind his desk, Kingsley stands with two other ministry workers. They’re deep in discussion, his guests furiously scribbling notes on the parchment upon their clipboards. Kingsley taps his finger onto his chin as he answers another question.

She sees this as the perfect opportunity, as Aberfield and Bruiser are nowhere in sight. Keen to communicate her true intentions about the program without interruption, Hermione clears her throat. “Kingsley? A word?” she asks.

Kingsley swivels his head in her direction and smiles. “Hermione, of course. Come inside.” He gestures her into the office with a wave of his hand. “I have some important business to continue dealing with, but once I am finished, we can speak.”

Cautiously entering the room, Hermione situates herself just behind one of the guest chairs as Kingsley turns his attention back to the workers.

The tall man speaks. “We were thinking red tablecloths, Minister—”

“Red tablecloths? Absolutely not. Black tablecloths would be much more appropriate and easier to build off of in terms of further decorations.”

_Tablecloths?_

“And let’s ensure that the orchestra has ample space on the stage for themselves and their many instruments. This gala with the M.A.C.U.S.A. representatives needs to run perfectly in order to safely secure our position in the international treaty.”

The stouter female asks a further question. “Have you made a decision in terms of the food selection?”

_Food? You have got to be kidding me…_

“As many options as possible,” Kingsley answers. “This event requires glamour and opulence. An array of food options should be available.”

“Excellent choice, Minister,” the man responds. “And for the formal invitations—”

Hermione clears her throat, garnering the irate glares of the two workers. She keeps her eyes glued on Kingsley, though—holds his gaze until he’s forced to exhale and reconcile with her silent yet thunderous plea.

Kingsley turns back to the irritated employees. “Why don’t we continue this discussion in one hour? See what sort of progress you can make with regards to the current suggestions. Thank you for your time.”

The staff sidesteps Kingsley’s golden desk and flags around Hermione, their eyes traveling up and down her body with antipathy. Her eyes stalk them as well as they exit the office, and then her vision redirects to Kingsley.

“Now,” Kingsley sighs, folding his indigo robes over his torso and sitting on his regal chair, “What is on your mind, Hermione?”

No distractions. No games. No sugar-coating anything.

Hermione hits the point on the head with a hammer. “I need to talk to you about the F.D.E.R.E.”

“Well, Aberfield and Bruiser should be here for this—”

“No,” Hermione interrupts, taking a step forward and latching her hands around the back of the guest chair. “We need to talk about this alone.”

Kingsley raises his eyebrows. “I see.”

She begins, the fire in her heart guiding her words out with ease. “There is something very wrong about that program and about the methods which Aberfield and Bruiser are approaching the situation. I have reason to believe that their practices are unethical.”

“Unethical how?” Kingsley asks, and Hermione is fucking shocked at how genuine the question is. If he could just _open his eyes_ , then he would see all of the issues laid out in front of him like an open book. A children’s book. A fucking picture book with vibrant colors and colossal words, and they’d read something like _Aberfield and Bruiser are fucking frauds_!

“For starters, they are completely ignoring the real issue at hand here. I am well aware that this program was created to help them become reacquainted with the wizarding world, and that the situation of their private life was unknown to us. But our main concern cannot be reintegrating them into society. Kingsley—they need rehab before that can even become a conversation. _Real_ rehab. They have an obvious drug addiction that nobody is doing anything about.”

Kingsley nods. “I understand.”

“Do you?” Hermione presses, her tone climbing towards unkempt levels of indignance. “Because I have brought up this issue before, and you brushed over it like it didn’t matter.”

Kingsley folds his hands, stroking the silver rings on his fingers. “I am an incredibly busy man, Hermione. Unfortunately, I cannot oversee every little project that happens at the Ministry.”

“But you can organize gala parties?” she retorts.

He sighs, and Hermione can sense an inkling of his defeat. It’s enough to keep her pushing.

“I’m just asking you to show a little more attention to this issue. These are real people with concrete feelings and emotions. Need I remind you what happened to Graham when he was left untreated? I can’t… I can’t allow that to happen again. This program cannot continue in good faith. Not when it’s ignoring their actual struggles. I think there needs to be a complete investigation of Aberfield’s credentials.”

“On what specific grounds?” Kingsley continues.

“For starters, I believe that he’s poisoning them.”

“Poisoning!”

“Yes! And I have reason to believe that his trackers are some form of dark magic. Or… the potions are the dark magic. Regardless, both initiatives are completely unprincipled. I already told you that Pansy was exhibiting strange symptoms with regards to her dormant Dark Mark. The others have experienced the same phenomenon. I have reason to believe that _Graham_ underwent the same torture. This isn’t a coincidence, Kingsley. Has the spell Aberfield created for the trackers even been registered with the ministry archives?”

Kingsley sighs as if the question is more burdensome than any request he’s ever been asked. “I do not know the answer to that question.”

“ _How_ could you not know?” Hermione exasperates, throwing her hands in the air and then gripping the back of the chair again.

“Hermione, I don’t have much time to be scrutinizing every measure of the program. There is quite a bit of business to be taken care of before I can devote all of my attention to this minor initiative. You have to understand that this is important to me. However, I have quite a bit on my plate as the Minister of Magic. I can’t be dissecting every inch of this secondary program.”

She hates how he says that— _secondary program_ —as if the Slytherins are any less deserving of attention from the ministry. As if their lives have not been torn apart and stomped on by the heels of this inflexible government.

She invokes her inner dragon because it brings her confidence and power.

“Can I be candid with you, Kingsley?”

Leaning back in his chair, Kingsley extends his hand forward and consents to her words.

“I mean this in a very sincere way. And I mean no disrespect. But there is a clear lack of regard and acknowledgement for this program that comes from you. Do you not see the value in helping these people? Don’t you think they are deserving of compassion and benevolence? Do you not care what happens to them? I cannot understand why all of the problems which I have relayed to you are not getting through to your mind and your heart. Please— _please_ —I need you to hear these words. Why is it that the rest of the wizarding world gets your undivided attention, but these people don’t?”

A question for the ages. One that lives on in all facets of life. One that divides humanity and exposes frauds and those too selfish to be in positions of authority. One for Kingsley and for all the _fuckers_ who ignore those most vulnerable. 

“Hermione, this _is_ important to me. But there are important people to keep happy. There is an image that I need to create about our world after the war. I am trying to rebuild this system after the devastating toll the war took on the infrastructure and people. This does not happen overnight. This takes time and patience and collaboration with other wizarding governments. I cannot devote all of my time to one program. What Aberfield has planned—”

“—Aberfield is _clearly_ unhinged and does not know how to properly care for them—”

“—I am putting my trust in him for the time being, Hermione—”

“Why? For fuck’s sake, why? Kingsley, please, there are more important things than public appearance—than bureaucratic meetings and luxurious galas! I am begging you to please listen to me. There needs to be some sort of investigation against Aberfield and Bruiser. I’ve spent the entire holiday with my peers. The difference in their personalities when they’re not tied down to the Draught of Peace and meetings is astounding. Please stop perpetrating this program that makes them unhappy. That drives them to their drugs further. Please.”

Kingsley takes a deep, drained breath. “I hear you, Hermione. I will speak to Aberfield and Bruiser in the near future about changing the trajectory of the program. In the meantime, please continue to do your job. It sounds as though you’ve formed quite an attachment to the group, and I am confident that your undeniable kindness towards them has helped make this a smooth experience. And I do appreciate that about you.”

An empty compliment, at best. Nothing of significant value. Not even close to what she wants to hear. No promises made, no direct action being taken. Nothing. Just meaningless words to get her to be quiet.

Hermione’s shoulders fall—she realizes that they’ve been tense since the beginning of the conversation.

Kingsley takes her silence as permission to continue. “I am just being equally as candid with you, Hermione. I cannot be everywhere at once. I cannot please everyone. I cannot make everything perfect.”

In the quiet that follows, and as Hermione rolls her eyes, Kingsley pulls a drawer of his desk open and removes a piece of parchment paper from a hidden stack. He slides the paper towards Hermione, grabs a quill from the top of his desk, and extends the pen to her.

“Why don’t you write down your specific requests, and I will find a time to get to them.”

Unsatisfied but without another option, Hermione sidesteps around the chair, receives the quill, and bites her lower lip in contemplation. There are several things she wishes to write. She could compile a list as long as the number of edicts that fucking Umbridge once enacted at Hogwarts, and they’d probably be just as petty and demanding as hers. But at least they’d be for a good cause.

Instead, Hermione looks at Kingsley and says, “I just want the program shut down.”

“Hermione,” Kingsley sighs, leaning forward and setting his forearms against his desk. “That would affect your internship with the ministry. If you cannot complete your project under the mentorship of Aberfield, your selected advisor, then you will be unqualified to serve in a ministry position further.”

“You can’t threaten my future at the ministry with this, Kingsley,” Hermione entreats, shaking her head and pleading with her crystalline eyes.

“The protocol is out of my hands—”

“You’re the _Minister_ of _fucking_ Magic!” Hermione exclaims. “How can you sit there and—”

“Hermione, work with me here,” Kingsley interrupts, his voice stern and direct and unwilling to budge.

She sighs. Centers herself. And begins to write her requests.

_A diagnostic of the Location Beam._

_A list of ingredients in Aberfield’s office and in the Draught of Peace._

_An investigation into Aberfield’s work history._

_An investigation into Healer Bruiser’s work history._

And finally,

_Real rehab for the Slytherins._

After dotting the final period, Hermione deposits the quill into its small basin and slides the paper back to Kingsley’s side of the desk.

“These are indispensable requests. They need to be done,” she mutters. 

Kingsley quickly glazes over them and nods. “I will get these done at my next convenience.”

_My next convenience_ , she repeats to herself as she turns and walks away. But right before she exits—right before her hand can reach the silver knob—Hermione turns back to Kingsley.

“Your ‘convenience’ might be too late for them. You need to do something now. Or I will. I won’t hesitate to do whatever I can to help them. And it should be the same for you.”

She’s out the door a moment later.

And just when she thinks she’s heard it all—just when she thought that the ministry could not push her nerves more—the topic of today’s discussion throws Hermione completely out of her mind.

They’re seated in the same lackadaisical circle when Aberfield poses the topic for the day:

“Let’s talk about… blood status.”

The moment those words tumble past Aberfield’s conniving smile, Hermione’s face tenses. She first looks at her notes for the day, and when she doesn’t see anything on the curriculum about blood status, she panics. Feels the muscles in her body tighten and hold her breath captive in her chest.

She subsequently surveys the expressions of the group, wondering what their reactions to the awkward and problematic topic of discussion are. Written on their faces like a headline is the look of pure shock and horror. Blaise’s mouth hangs open, Adrian’s eyes are wide with astonishment, Pansy’s eyebrows are inclined furiously, Daphne’s bright cheeks attest to her uncomfortableness, Theo’s fists tighten and his jaw clenches, and Draco lips are flattened, his nostrils flared. Steam practically discharges from his ears as the strain in his forehead builds with every passing second.

Aberfield continues. “A rather sensitive topic, undoubtedly. But it must be discussed.”

Adrian slopes forward, leaning his elbows upon his bouncing knees. “Exactly what do you plan on teaching us that we don’t alright know?”

“I thought we could have an honest discussion about the history of blood supremacy. You all come from rather distinguished, pureblood families, yes?”

Nobody answers.

“And you’re all familiar with the very vocabulary that tore the wizarding world apart, I assume?”

Theo clenches his jaw even tighter, the projection of the joint reaching a dangerous level, like any more pressure would snap his mouth. “ _Aberfield_ —”

“There’s a fascinating practice in the muggle world called repentance. It’s linked with their religious ideologies. Apparently, forgiveness is as simple as admitting to all the wrongs things you’ve done and subsequently receiving what is called a penance—an act or deed to complete in order to solidify that forgiveness with a higher power. I think it would be an interesting exercise for us to participate in, yes? Repent and ask for forgiveness?”

And then Aberfield’s delighted eyes fall upon Hermione.

“Ms. Granger, you were well acquainted with these students at Hogwarts, yes? That is what you told me, after all.”

She can feel her heart stop—literally cease its beating. Her voice catches in her throat because without oxygen she cannot speak, cannot breathe, cannot process in her mind what is unfolding. The only part of her that moves is her fingers, tepid and frantic in the way they link through one another.

“At any given time, when you attended school with these individuals, did one of them ever call you a mudblood?”

The word falls out of his mouth far too easily.

Hermione can’t help it. Her lips unfasten and her jaw slackens.

She finds that bit of oxygen and answers, “That’s an incredibly inappropriate question.”

Aberfield continues, appearing to relish in the palpable uneasiness that he’s fostered in the room. He shifts his attention to the others. “Taken Ms. Granger’s inability to answer the question, I do believe you all owe her an apology.”

Hermione shakes her head. “No, that’s really not necessary—”

“For calling her a mudblood.”

The word strikes the air like thunder.

“A filthy mudblood.”

Another crash.

“A disgusting mudblood.”

_Crash._

“Whatever other adjective it is you tacked onto the word—”

“Aberfield, please—”

“Go on,” Aberfield exclaims, gesturing towards Hermione. “Ask for forgiveness! All of you! Heal! Tell the mudblood that you’re sorry!”

At the mention of the taboo yet again, Blaise rises to his feet and points his finger at Aberfield. “You have a lot of nerve directing that word at Hermione, Aberfield—”

“It is for _educational_ purposes, Mr. Zabini.”

Blaise scoffs and rolls his eyes. “Educational purposes? _Really_?”

“These meetings are fucking shams,” Adrian adds. “And _this_ lesson is utter bullshit. What are you teaching us here, huh? What is it you’re trying to get at?”

“Will you or will you not take responsibility for your past actions? Will you or will you not adhere to the original goal of this program, which is to reconcile your actions as former Death Eaters and work towards building a more reputable standing in society—”

Hermione joins Blaise on his feet and speaks directly to Aberfield. “This is _incredibly_ unwarranted, Aberfield.”

Yet he continues, unphased by the festering contention. “Where are your backbones, ladies and gentlemen? Has the word really lost all meaning to you? Did it ever mean anything? Go on—say it! Nobody here will stop you! Apologize to the mudblood! Let the world roll off your tongue once again!”

“Why are you saying this to us?” Daphne entreats, her hands shaking as they grip the bottom of her seat.

Aberfield directs his attention to Draco, whose face is red with anger. “Go on, Mr. Malfoy. You seem quite keen to say it. I can tell by your expression. Look at Ms. Granger and say these words: ‘I’m sorry for calling you a _mudblood_ , Hermione.’ It will feel so good to let that word come out of your mouth again, wouldn’t you agree—”

In a hot flash, quicker than lightning itself, Draco rips himself from his chair and charges across the middle of the circle towards Aberfield, his fist cocked behind his head and his eyes red with anger.

Blaise leaps in front of Draco and shoves his shoulders back. And Adrian, quick to react, jumps from his own chair and dives towards Draco, tugging him back by his shoulders as well.

Aberfield stands and raises his arms in a sardonic surrender as Draco struggles to break himself free of his friends’ tight grips.

All the while, Hermione recoils in shock and discovers Theo springing in front of her like her safeguard. And her mind takes her back to that meeting where they almost tore one another apart—now, it’s different. It’s a shared enemy that’s threatened the unity, the foundation, the string that keeps them together. And with each day that passes, that string keeps them further and further from spiraling and crashing. It’s natural that any sort of threat to that peace would stir such high emotions.

“ _One_ day in!” Draco shouts. “One day into these _fucking_ meetings again and you’re already making fatal mistakes! Keep fucking saying it! Go on! See where that will get you!”

“Mr. Malfoy—”

“Fuck you, Aberfield!” Draco spits. “One more stupid _fucking_ word from that mouth of yours and I swear you’ll regret it!”

He doesn’t heed Draco’s caveat. “Clearly, you weren’t suited to be Death Eaters. If the word is too difficult to say,” Aberfield brags.

Hermione notices the tone in his voice.

He _brags_.

As if saying the word is something to be proud of. As if he’s proving some sort of universal and extraordinary point about them.

“And you have no difficulty saying it, so what does that say about you, huh?” Theo shouts, still positioning himself in front of Hermione.

“We all regret several things,” Pansy interjects, her hand fastened to Daphne’s as they stand in solidarity. “We’re at the point in our fucking lives where we don’t need to be reminded of our mistakes. We’re trying here. We’re attending your fucking meetings. We’re growing on our own terms. We don’t need you shoving this down on our throats!”

For Hermione, it’s enough. She can’t stand it anymore.

She steps forward. “This meeting is over. This was not the lesson we had planned. You’ve sprung this upon me and upon them, and that is highly inappropriate. I told Kingsley we would leave the moment something goes wrong. This is that moment.”

“This is a lesson in the real world, Ms. Granger,” Aberfield responds. “Another step to recovery and rehabilitation—”

“You have _quite_ the nerve to use those specific words, Aberfield,” Hermione seethes. “‘Recovery’ and ‘rehabilitation’. There’s none of that happening here! This is a circus, not a rehabilitation program. And I can’t allow it to go any further.”

As Draco finds his bearings and the others begin to relax, Hermione makes a bold decision. She looks into Draco’s tired eyes and does it for him. For all of them. For herself.

“We’re not coming back to this program until this is all sorted with Kingsley.”

Theo gazes at Hermione over his shoulders, takes in the serious look in her eyes, grabs Pansy’s hand, and leads the exodus out of the room. The Slytherins all follow suit, crossing the threshold of the circle and parading towards the door, the promised land, their nirvana and heaven and whatever other paradise they know outside these walls.

Draco passes by Hermione, his ears beet red as he follows the others.

With one more look at Aberfield, Hermione shadows the Slytherins and promenades to the door, leaving a trail of success with each footprint on the monotone carpet.

“Where’s your will to repent?” Aberfield shouts as they pile into the hallway. “Where’s your regret? Where is your willingness to own up to your mistakes? I know you’ve said the word! Come to terms with it before it eats you up inside! Do it!”

Hermione turns around just before exiting simply because she can’t resist the feeling of arguing with him. “You can’t force reconciliation,” she exasperates. “Especially when it’s completely unnecessary and forced.”

Aberfield shakes his head and chuckles in a low pitch. “I worried about you, Ms. Granger. I knew your kind heart would attach itself to them—grow _too_ close to them. You’ve lost sight of the true meaning of this program. They must own up to their mistakes. Learn from them. Reflect and repent. You are getting in the way of that exercise and inhibiting their growth. Don’t ruin your career here at the ministry for them. Don’t fall into their trap of illicit behavior. Don’t give in.”

“You are utterly out of line. Kingsley will hear about this behavior. And you will be removed from your post here. I will make sure of it.”

Aberfield chortles and shakes his head. “You promised me at the conception of this program that no matter how difficult or impossible this became you would remain pure of heart. And yet, you side with the disgraced Death Eaters.”

“Side with them?” Hermione crossly repeats. “This program was _always about_ siding with them. And if you are blind to that fact, then you are more incompetent than I thought.”

“It would do you well,” Aberfield starts, stepping forward, “To treat me with more respect.”

She feels a hand on her back. A familiar hand. _His_ hand.

“Come any closer and you’ll regret it,” Draco warns, and she can feel the sincerity of his threat as it trickles down her spine in an ominous breeze.

Aberfield’s eyes dart between the two, and he laughs. “It’s like I said—I feared you would become emotionally attached to them, Ms. Granger.”

“That’s the _point_ , Aberfield. I am emotionally attached because I have a heart. I have compassion. Forgiveness lives inside of me as if it’s its own organ. They received my forgiveness long ago.”

She cocks her eyebrow, remembering what she saw in the Pensieve just yesterday. And she asks a daring question that’s laced with the key to his past: “Are you still searching for it? For forgiveness?”

Aberfield’s face tenses. She’s unlocked his secrets and let them ooze out of his secret box, and now they float in the atmosphere like little demons. And they torment Aberfield—it’s clear in his distressed mien. The dip of his eyebrows, the small aperture made possible with the release of his lips, and the horizontal lines forming on his forehead—all markers that point to his darkest memories. Memories that Hermione has seen herself.

“Expect a formal letter from Kingsley about your termination very soon. I won’t have this any longer. Until then, we won’t come back.”

“You can take those lessons of yours—” Theo shouts from behind— “And shove them right up your sorry fucking arse!” And he throws his middle fingers in the air for good measure.

Adrian hoots and mimics Theo's action. 

The group turns and begins to walk away, and Hermione feels Draco’s hand guide her body in the other direction. The last thing she sees is the look on Aberfield’s face, still swollen and red with fury.

She can hear Draco inhale and exhale out of his nose with the same level of anger. His hand tenses on her back—flexes and then rests comfortably against her yet again. Hermione exhales, releasing every ounce of tension from that meeting and instead letting every wonderful iota of the free atmosphere around her asphyxiate her.

And they’re almost at the end of the hallway when Hermione hears Aberfield storm out of the seminar room. She rotates her head to look over her shoulder closest to Draco and watch as he storms into his office a few doors down. The door slams.

“Ignore him,” Draco says, gazing down at Hermione. She lifts her eyes to meet his. “Ignore it all.”

And she realizes two things in that moment.

The first is that if Kingsley isn’t going to step up any time soon, she’ll take matters into her own hands just like she promised. Break into Aberfield’s office and turn it over ten times in order to uncover his plot. She knows he has one.

The second is that she really is the damsel that the dragon has sworn to protect. And as strong as she is, it doesn’t hurt to have someone willing to undergo extreme measures to protect her. She’ll relish in it today, tonight, and for however long she can.

Did Ukraine ever exist under a monarchy? Were their princesses, dressed in their lavish ball gowns and anointed with diamond crowns, that treaded around their luxurious palaces? Did dragons fly over the castle as a caveat to any enemy that dared cross the drawn lines?

History has a funny way of repeating itself. Hermione wonders if the fables hold as much truth as real life.

With Draco’s hand glued to her back, she suspects that they just might.


	24. Chapter 24

He can sense them. His demons.

Draco feels the little devils in his mind disperse around his insides, tugging at his nerves and tramping over his muscles with severe fervor.

They’re trying to drag him down. He knows this. It’s what they were created to do, and why should this moment yield any different function? Why should the ire that boils in his blood be exempt from the demons that heat it in the first place?

In a flash, his arm spasms because—damnit to all hell—Draco feels like the rage inside of him will explode like a fiery bomb at any second, and the safest outlet for that rage is in a tight shudder of his limbs.

What he wouldn’t give to strangle Aberfield in this very moment.

Draco’s hot fingers tingle as he visualizes it—wrapping his hands around that fucker’s neck and squeezing until his beady eyes bulge out of his sorry sockets. Draco would gaze at him with pleasure as he choked the life out of Aberfield. That fucker would lull over himself, eyes rolling back and torso dropping limp in front of him, and then his legs would wane and croak under the gravity of his blackout. He’d spill onto the floor, a hollow corpse and nothing more. And the world would celebrate the demise of that evil, and then maybe they could all finally move on.

Instead of acting on that anger, though, Draco follows the others as they apparate back to their apartment. They land in the exact spot they departed from earlier that day—a few paces between the kitchenette and front door.

Draco’s teeth chatter as he tries to curb his budding anger.

He looks down at his hand. It’s still enveloping hers.

Realizing that he has to let go in order to compose his fury somewhere else, Draco’s heart stiffens. To release her hand now will undoubtedly feel like he’s ripping off a piece of his own body. He’s attached—he can’t deny it. And it’s strange, because he never expected Granger to be the one to draw that need out of him. In truth, he always knew she was benevolent—even at Hogwarts, he noticed it plain as day. Perceived her nature stronger than anyone else could.

His friends are like stars, shining and glowing when he needs something bright, but Granger is the sun to him. She’s all of them and more. She burns, dedicates every cent of her energy, and shines her light on him and everything around him without question. And even on days where there’s clouds and rain, he knows that the sun still rises without fault; she’s there even in his darkest moments. And she’s dying to seep through those clouds, and sometimes he can feel her rays just barely slip through the holes between them. Sometimes the beams of her light reach him. Sometimes they don’t. But she’s still there, rising for him every day.

So, letting go of his sun does bring him pain, but there’s something inside of him that begs him to take a moment alone. It’s what he needs, after all.

And he thinks she knows this. Because the look Granger gives him as he surrenders the warmth of her touch is one that is fully based in understanding and patience that, for a moment, Draco locks eyes with her and feels half of his demons die. A crash of reassurance strikes his chest as he takes in the mood of her eyes, the soft and reassuring glimmer that hits him right where he needs it. His hand once holding hers contracts, his fingers spread, and then he retreats to the restroom across the apartment without explanation, though he hopes that it’s obvious enough for everyone to assume for themselves.

Draco shuts the door behind him, grips the sides of the sink with his shaking hands, and inhales deeply.

His mind reminds him of the cocaine situated behind the mirror in front of him. Like magnets underneath his hands, a force draws him towards the mirror. There is no denying the euphoric feeling of the cocaine, especially when things become hazy in his mind. And so he flings the mirror open, and his eyes fall on the stash of cocaine in an all too familiar dime bag that sits on the center shelf. It speaks to him, seductively, desirably.

His hand juts out to grab the bag, and he holds it in front of his eyes. He really fucking _looks_ at it, admiring the dominance of the simple white powder while simultaneously cursing everything that it has pitilessly brought upon him.

Just as he is about to undo the seal of the bag and participate in his favored vice to drown out the horrible memories of the day, his hands stop themselves. The magnets falter. The energy that draws him to the cocaine weakens and stammers beneath another voice in his head. And the voice is smooth as vanilla, saturated with a sentiment so sweet that he can taste it in his mouth.

_You don’t need it._

Draco’s fingernails dig into his forehead, and then he drags his palms down his face in frustration.

The next voice is heartless and sharper, borne out of his self-destructive disposition.

_Yes, I do. I need this._

_No. You don’t._

_Oh, come now, Draco. Let’s not play this game. You need me._

His brain throbs because the voices won’t stop arguing. They’re pugnacious and ominous, disrupting the last bit of sanity that is present in his mind. And the longer he holds this bag of cocaine—the longer he anticipates the high that will come and the crash that will follow—the more Draco hates every single thing that he has become. The more he wishes that he could just discover solace in something else without drowning it in his trauma.

Her. He’s going to drown her in his pain and issues if he becomes too dependent.

That’s what keeps him from falling into her. If that fear weren’t there, he’d do it in a second.

Regardless, he can already sense his body gravitating towards her kind spirit. She was _kind_ when the rest of the world ignored them.

Draco hadn’t felt that kind of tenderness in years. And as much as he tries to resist her help, he just can’t stop himself from wanting to lean into her. He wishes he wouldn’t, because that’s not what she deserves. She shouldn’t have to take care of him. He should be able to do that for himself.

But it’s… hard. It’s so strenuous and exhausting. He’s tired.

But the least he can do in this moment is _try again._

So in a moment of clarity and determination, Draco rips open the seal and dumps the contents of the bag down the open drain.

Through the metal aperture the cocaine descends, traces of it lingering around the edge of the circular drain. Persistent as ever, Draco pulls on the cold-water knob. The water crashes upon the remaining cocaine, and the substance simmers and disintegrates until nothing remains.

Draco takes a large breath, the pressure distending his stomach forward. He coughs, his throat weeping for the drip that he won’t be feeling.

And then he realizes what he’s done and curses under his breath.

Because now there is nothing holding him back from sinking into her warm arms and then subsequently tumbling down the rabbit hole of dependency.

_Fuck._

He shouldn’t have done that.

His friends can't know that he did that. 

And the last things she needs are more responsibilities, more burdens, and any reason to leave.

Because, according to Draco, that’s what he is to himself and others—a burden. Someone who can’t fathom living with who he is unless it involves surrounding himself with people that make life worth living at all.

She does.

Draco can’t believe that he is truly thinking these things about her, but he really is tired. And Granger is there—no, she’s _here_ —and she’s got her arms wide open, and her heart is on her sleeve, and it beats and labors just to take care of them—of him. And that’s all he needs at this fucking point. He’ll grab hold and never let go, not unless he is violently pried from her hands.

Draco runs his fingers through his hair, attempting to process the repercussions of what he’s just done. He flushed the drugs down the drain and didn’t even give it a second thought. There’s his act of strength, his moment of vulnerability. He needed that.

_Just try for the day._

He can see this working. So long as he balances the ever-coursing emotions in his head and the remaining malicious demons swirling throughout his blood stream, Draco can see himself making it through the day without indulging.

Down the drain goes his drugs, and with them his fear of accepting her gestures and warmth.

Because how could he say no to someone as tender yet fiery as her? How can he deny the sun it’s intrinsic function, the thing that it rises every day to do without fault?

Why would he want the deceptive sensations from the drugs when he can find actual comfort in a healthier way with Granger?

Draco doubts that the detox will last very long—it never does—but he resolves to try. With everything in him, Draco accepts the challenge, cognizant that his safeguard is only a breath away. He just needs to reach forward and stop fighting it.

-

She noticed absolute fatigue in him all day.

When Draco exited the bathroom, he swiped his nose and gritted his teeth, and so Hermione assumed that he occupied himself with his normal habit.

What she wouldn’t give to turn back time and yank his hand back when he pulled away. Remind him that there are other options, brighter paths, and better alternatives to his coping mechanisms. That there are actual people standing right in front of him who would sacrifice everything for his happiness.

He grew wearier, prevalent in every little thing he did throughout the day. As they lounged on the couches and chatted about irrelevant and humorous topics, Hermione noticed Draco’s energy tank. Adrian would crack joke after joke, Blaise would emit his hearty laugh, Daphne would nudge Draco’s arm with concern, and Pansy and Theo would caress one another as if in their own little bubble of love. But Draco simply sat there, his eyes weak and his chest moving a mere mile an hour. Hermione watched as he forced smiles, but then his fingers would twitch, his eyes would flutter, and his mouth would form a wide and tall ‘o’ shape as he yawned every other minute. It seemed like exhaustion held him captive and drained him of everything.

By the evening, Draco looks like a ghost of who he was in the morning. And Hermione concludes that he wasn’t snorting cocaine in the bathroom—he couldn’t have been.

It’s peculiar how a sudden withdrawal of chemically induced dopamine can really affect a person. Can draw them into such a passive and drained mood. Twist and deplete them of their emotions and personality.

When after a relaxing day they decide to turn in for the night, Hermione finds herself instinctually retreating to his bedroom. Adrian stays behind on the couch, legs propped up to run across the length of it with Crookshanks reclined on his chest in a comfortable position. With his right forearm placed behind his head and his left hand stroking the kneazle’s fur, Adrian catches Hermione admiring the sweet scene.

“You just go on and continue to hog my bed, Granger,” Adrian sarcastically insists, eyeing her up and down and flicking her hand in the direction of his room. “If you really _are_ using it, that is.”

Hermione smirks and rolls her eyes. “Goodnight, Adrian.”

Before she can leave, Adrian speaks again. “Hey, Granger.”

She turns around at Adrian’s call, watching as he swings his legs over the side of the couch and sits up. His hand rotates Crookshanks into his arms, and he holds the kneazle like a baby. His jade eyes sparkle as he smiles softly at her.

“Everything that happened today…”

Adrian clears his throat and finds comfort in stroking Crookshanks’ belly.

“I just want to apologize.”

Hermione finds herself taken aback at his solemnity. When earnestness passes between Adrian’s usually jovial lips, she knows that the sentiments are both grave and sincere.

“I’m sorry too,” she responds, taking a step forward.

Adrian shakes his head and rises to his feet with Crookshanks still nestled in his broad arms, crossing the room to where Hermione stands. Balancing the kneazle in his left arm, Adrian slings his right arm over Hermione’s shoulder and tugs her in for a hug. He props his chin atop her head and rubs her shoulder with his hand.

“Today wasn’t your fault,” he mumbles. “In reality, it was ours.”

“Still doesn’t make what Aberfield was trying to do acceptable,” she says, dipping her head into his chest.

Adrian pulls away and looks down into her eyes. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, Granger. You belong here. You’re welcome here. We do need you, yes. But we’re also just happier when you’re here. What’s in the past can’t be changed. But you should know that what you’re doing for us makes the future worth seeing.” He falters for a moment, his voice breaking slightly. “I’m sorry that Graham never got to feel your compassion. Maybe he’d… still be…”

Adrian can’t finish his sentence. He breaks the blockage in his throat with a gasp of air, wiggles his nose, and shakes his head.

“Fuck’s sake,” he laughs to himself. “Didn’t mean to get all sentimental right before your little soirée with Malfoy.” He’s back to his comedic tone of voice.

“Adrian—”

“You go to bed,” he says, nudging his head in the direction of the door to his room. “Go on.”

She doesn’t move. Her feet are stuck to the floor as she watches Adrian turn around and fall back onto the couch, plopping Crookshanks back on his chest and swiping his thumb across the sides of his pudgy, orange face. As much as Hermione wants to engage with him further—dig out the sadness and toss it aside and make everything better for him—she’s learned to respect boundaries.

She instead just says, “Goodnight.”

“Sweet dreams,” he sings back with a cheeky smile, returning his undivided attention to Crookshanks as Hermione withdraws into his room for the night.

Once there, Hermione’s eyes dart between Adrian and Draco’s beds.

She resolves to sit on the edge of Adrian’s bed and wait until Draco comes back, when maybe—just maybe—he’ll express how he feels. He’ll say what he wants from her.

Because Hermione already knows what it is she desires. She knows perfectly well which bed she’d prefer to sleep in tonight. But that’s only if it’s what he wants as well. She won’t force it. She refuses to contribute to a devastating and torturous episode of silence between them.

Her feet tap against the floor and her fingers dig into the edge of the mattress as she awaits Draco’s return from the bathroom. She counts the seconds in her head as they go by, waiting for the opening of the door to draw her out of her daze. Eyes glued to the spot in his bed that she slept in last night, Hermione affirms in her heart and mind that she’d do anything to spend the night there again. Be near him. Hold him, even. Remind him over and over that she’s not going anywhere, that she’d do anything for him and the others, that he has value and is important and strong and beautiful—

The door swings open, finally. Hermione’s eager head twists to behold Draco as he closes the door to their room. When he turns around, he catches her stare with his silver eyes, holds it for one perfect moment, and then begins to walk towards his bed.

He mirrors her position, sitting on the edge of the bed and clasping his hands in his lap.

It takes a moment, but Hermione speaks first.

“Are you alright?” she asks, and fuck’s sake she immediately cringes at the question. She knows the answer already: of course not. 

His weary eyes and arched back illustrate it plainly—Draco Malfoy is detoxing, and it’s devouring him.

He purses his lips, staring at the empty pillow to Hermione’s side to avoid eye contact with her. He clears his throat, fighting the urge to look into her eyes, those kind eyes, those eyes that could melt him in an instant.

Hermione doesn’t wish to push him too hard, but she knows he needs a nudge, a minor impetus. Something to draw out the emotions that have been forced down after years of suppression.

“Malfoy—”

She suddenly notices the manner by which his legs bounce up and down and the equally chaotic way his fingers twitch. He can’t stop moving, can’t control the ticks, can’t fight the agony of the detox that consumes his being.

For Hermione, it’s scary. So she can’t even fathom how he must be feeling.

“Do you need anything?” she asks, leaning forward slightly.

Draco’s lips part slightly, and she truly believes that he’s going to speak.

_Come on,_ she thinks to herself, _you can do this, Malfoy._

His lips quiver, opening and closing a few times before he finally communicates with her. “It’s… uh… it’s just that it’s been several hours. Since I’ve… had anything.”

Her heart springs at the admittance of his detox. It’s a step in the right direction, an iota of progress for him.

“What can I do?” she presses.

Draco inhales a slow, solemn breath through his nostrils. “Nothing, Granger. It’s… normal.”

She hates that he normalizes the torture he undergoes. He shouldn’t have to go through this, it shouldn’t be him—why is it him?

One final push. “Can’t I do anything?” she asks, secretly praying to the gods that he’ll allow her to be near him.

Attempting to control his twitching fingers, Draco rubs the bridge of his nose and the corners of his eyes with his thumb and index finger. Hermione’s hope falters for a moment, and she fears that she’ll be spending the night in this empty bed, without him.

She dreads that future until Draco says, “Could you… come…”

He doesn’t finish his sentence. Just drops his head into the palm of his hand and sighs despondently.

It’s enough for Hermione. She can read Draco’s plea like a headline, discern exactly what it is he desires from those three little words. He doesn’t have to finish his sentence for her to do what she wants—what she is sure he wants too.

She rises to her feet, makes the two-foot journey from her bed to his, and sits to his right.

Her exposed thigh skims against his, the spark of the touch causing Hermione’s breath to snag and her throat to tighten. They remain quiet for a moment, soaking in their physical closeness.

Hermione’s eyes wander to his shoulder where she knows there is a scar hidden beneath his black t-shirt.

“How is your scar?” she asks quietly, her eyes lifting to meet his as he turns his head to answer.

“Better,” he responds with small nods.

Their pod of silence recommences, but Hermione—true to her nature—breaks the quiet with her rambling.

“I’m sorry about what happened today,” she whispers, lowering her head in shame.

Draco cocks an eyebrow in confusion at her apology. “What on earth are you apologizing for, Granger?” His tone is sincere.

“For… all of it.” She scratches her forehead. “I’m sorry I didn’t pull you all out of there sooner. I’m sorry I lacked the strength to do that months ago.”

Draco clears his throat. “Not your fault.” He pauses, then continues. “What Aberfield said—”

He stops himself, then after contemplating for a moment, he finishes his thought. “It shouldn’t have had to have been said in the first place.”

Her breathing fails at his words. Raising her eyes to meet his—already glued to her by the time she looks at him—she shakes her head. “Malfoy, it’s in the past—”

“You…” he starts, the tremor in his lips hindering his ability to speak, “You are… the only one who… who cares.”

Her heart—it shatters.

“Why? Why, after everything that we’ve been through, do you want to help us?”

In truth, she both knows and doesn’t know. In the back of her mind, she can’t neglect the way they treated her in Hogwarts. Their words and actions—Draco’s, in particular—are engrained in her memory like warning signs, caveats and impositions she can’t seem to shake.

And yet, her heart gravitates towards them, and maybe it was inevitable that they find one another again to undergo this reconciliation. She’d experienced unconditional friendship with Harry and Ron, but there is something about surrounding herself with the Slytherins that fulfills a part of Hermione she’s always wanted to explore. They bring out everything good in her while simultaneously challenging her in situations not even the war had drawn out. Hermione feels more alive than ever before when she is with them.

“I don’t totally know,” she responds with utter honesty.

“I do.”

Surprised, Hermione looks into his eyes, her heart beginning to palpitate at an unhealthy pace.

“I think there’s something innate about you that radiates… compassion.”

_Fuck_ , she thinks to herself, certain of her inevitable crumble into his arms.

“You, Granger—you’re just predisposed to kindness. And no matter what anyone says about you—no matter how poorly people treat you—there is still sympathy in everything you do. You pass on your energy to everything that you touch. You never stop burning.” Draco catches his breath. “You really are the sun. Always… giving. Never smothered by your own heat. Just … providing.”

“Until the moon rises with its own light,” Hermione whispers, returning the same sentiment he presents to her, one dipped in such serenity and admiration that she feels compelled to repay him for his words.

“Everyone sleeps when the moon comes out,” he responds with a tilt of his head.

She shakes her head. “No. Not everyone.” Noticing that his hands are still trembling, Hermione takes a leap of faith and swathes them in hers, squeezing lightly to stop the movement. “Try to relax,” she says, swiping her thumb over the back of his hand.

Draco inhales deeply, attempting to focus his breath in the moment. He looks down at their hands. “It’s difficult.”

Hermione bites her lower lip, racking her brain for ways to help him. “Okay. Why don’t you distract yourself with something. You can…” Her hands track up his wrists to reach the threshold of his tattoos. “You can tell me about these. One by one. How they feel, what they mean. Just talk and distract yourself.”

Draco hesitates.

“Trust me, talking helps,” she says, emitting a quick laugh.

A smile forms on his face. It’s small, practically microscopic. But it’s there.

And he opens up. 

“I occasionally go with Adrian to Barnet when he meets with our dealer. There’s a small shop near their meeting spot where I’ve been going since after my trial and moving in with everyone. It’s full of muggles. No magic whatsoever. And it’s… nice, actually. They don’t know who I am, or what I’ve done. They just… let me in. Talk to me. Paint art on something I consider tainted ever since receiving the mark.” His voice breaks for a moment, as if his next words are too hard to even think about. “The first time I went, the artist asked about my mark. Told me it looked badass. I didn’t have the heart to tell him what it really meant—what it represents.”

Hermione notices that he’s faltering, approaching a point that might be too difficult to continue to discuss. She hastens to redirect the subject.

“What does it feel like?”

Draco ponders for a moment, then snickers. “It actually feels similar to that bloody cat of yours scratching me over and over again.”

In response to his amusing remark, Hermione falls into a fit of giggles. And when she looks up, she has to do a double take because he’s smiling, he’s _smiling_. Teeth bared and lips curved up high.

“It’s an appealing sensation, actually. Some moments it feels like this steady stream of vibrations against my skin. Other moments it really does feel like something repeatedly clawing at you. I can’t explain it entirely, but there’s something very right about that feeling. Something calming yet enthralling at the same time. It’s addicting, for lack of a better word.”

She can’t stop listening to him, and she’s additionally enraptured by the shift in their dynamic. When everything has been about her speaking and expressing her emotions, it’s refreshing to watch Draco take his own steps forward in progressing their conversation. She savors it.

“But most importantly, getting these tattoos feels nothing like the day I received this one.” He points to the Dark Mark and bites his lower lip. “This… burned. Scorched my skin with ease. Hurt and stung and fucking bruised me for weeks. At least with these tattoos the pain isn’t that bad. It’s endurable and enjoyable. And it’s almost like I’m getting another chance at defining who I am. I’m reinventing myself with these new symbols. Hiding this ugly mark under things that actually matter to me.”

His voice… his explanations… they strike Hermione’s heart.

“You seem very attached to them,” she says.

Draco nods. “I am.”

“Can I see them all?”

He considers her question and subsequently laughs to himself.

Hermione raises one of her eyebrows, genuinely confused by the conception of his laughter. “What?” she asks, briefly laughing as well.

“Are you trying to coerce me into take my shirt off, Granger?”

She can’t help herself; the laughs pour out of her in a cascade of total relief. His smile returns, this time followed by his own laugh, and Hermione swears she’s never heard something so sweet. It’s undoubtedly the happiest she has ever seen him.

The closest she’d witnessed him reach this level of joy was while he was dancing in Amortentia with his friends, but even then, he’d been under the influence of his drugs. This laugh comes from a place of genuine pleasure, not tainted with chemicals or ecstasy or manipulated compounds. It comes straight from his soul.

“No,” she insists through her laugh. “I’m just… facilitating… a conversation—”

“Right, right,” he teases, lifting his eyebrows.

Hermione admires the way his cheeks flush and his smile forces little dimples around his eyes. Her insides are reduced to gelatin as she accepts her fate—she will positively melt into a puddle of paradise under his gaze.

“I’m genuinely curious!” she maintains, riding her smile out until it hurts. “Can you tell me about them?”

Draco regards her, his smile dissipating as his eyes study hers. He inhales, his chest rising with apprehension. But as his tongue slides across his bottom lip, Hermione perceives his cooperation finding light.

“I’ll show you.” He gestures his head to the left. “Come here.”

Before she understands exactly what he means, Draco grips the bottom of his shirt and lifts it over his torso and head. He tosses the shirt onto Adrian’s sheets, then pushes himself back onto the bed and towards his headboard. Leaning against the wood, his eyes remaining on Hermione the whole time, Draco motions his head to his right side.

Hermione wastes no time joining him. She crawls across his bed and settles to his right, stretching her legs forward to run parallel with his. Her eyes dip to his bare chest to admire the intricacies of the tattoos.

Clearing his throat, Draco holds his right arm out, and starting from the top, he begins to illuminate the mysteries upon his canvas.

“The snake for Slytherin. Because even though those years at Hogwarts were full of ups and down, I did find solace being among my housemates. And I still do. And I want to remember the association that brought us together all those years ago.” 

He rotates his arm so that his forearm faces up, and Hermione sees the heart. “A heart. It’s a reminder that I have one, after all this time. I like to look at it and remind myself that it’s very much still inside of me, beating, working as it should. Some might say I don’t have one, but then I can point to this and prove that I do.”

Her own heart throbs at that rationalization.

Draco flips his arm again and points to the shark that swims from the middle of his lower arm down his wrist. “A shark. They’re predatorial and vicious when required. Protective and defensive and fast. I’d be that for any of them because I know they’d be it for me. And—”

He curls his fingers into a fist, and Hermione revels at the way the veins in his hand protrude.

“It’s cool and metaphorical should I ever need to punch someone. Again.”

Hermione giggles as the memory of New Year’s Eve floats into her mind. She finds herself leaning upon his arm.

He continues by lifting his left hand to his right pectoral. “A flower.” He takes a deep breath, and Hermione watches as his eyes fill with dark memories. “For my mother.”

It clicks. Hermione remembers the way he recoiled when she asked about Narcissa on Christmas Eve. Guilt surges through her like a violent hurricane.

“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to,” she whispers.

He nods. “I want to. I need to.”

For reassurance, she reaches her left hand down and entwines her fingers in his. Her touch seems to give Draco the proper strength to speak.

“A few years ago—the summer I got the mark—I went into my father’s drawing room to speak with him. When I opened the door and walked inside, I saw both of them—my mother and father—snorting something off of a thin, metal board on his desk. I didn’t know exactly what they were doing until I got a clear view of the several strips of cocaine that lined the board. My mother was horrified. I was horrified. But I was also intrigued.”

He shakes his head as if to dispel the image from his mind. “I don’t mean to blame them. I swear. But that was the first time I saw someone do it. And I knew that they were under a lot of pressure, and so I thought that because I was also under pressure, that it might make me feel better. Might make my friends who were in similar positions feel better. The first time I snuck some of their stash, I was hooked. It’s… my fault that we ended up like this.”

“It’s not,” Hermione replies.

Draco huffs. “It’s okay, Granger. I’ve sort of come to accept my culpability in it all. In a way, it feels good to say it out loud. Really come to terms with it.” He stares at the wall across the room for several seconds, breathing through his chest to compose himself. Then, his head drops to look at the flower. “This is for her. A daffodil. They’re a way to have her close even when she’s far away. A more beautiful way to connect us as opposed to the drugs.”

Hermione has to bite her tongue to keep from crying, because all that runs through her mind in this moment is her own mother, somewhere in Australia, with no memory of her.

And then he continues, pointing to the other side of his chest. “Planets and constellations here because I’ve always secretly enjoyed that kind of stuff.”

Unfortunately, Hermione can’t say the same for herself. Perhaps Draco could convince her otherwise.

“I think there’s a lot that the sky can say about a person,” he reflects. “It can’t be all by chance. There’s meaning in those things—I know it. I’m sure of it.” He points to the highest constellation resting just above his pec. “I’ve got my own, obviously. Draco.” His eyebrows rise with pleasure, and then his finger drops to the one below, continuing down the line of the pattern of stars. “And this is Cyngus, which is a swan.”

Hermione’s heart immediately leaps because she’s reminded of Daphne’s Patronus.

“Pavo, which is a peacock.”

The white peacocks in her dream—the ones dwelling in the fields of the Manor.

“Vulpecula, which is a fox.”

“Why a fox?” Hermione inquires, realizing that her thumb has been rubbing his since she fastened her hand in his.

“We used to have some that ran around the gardens of the Manor. I found them cheeky and pleasant as a kid and would often chase them around, as if there weren’t any repercussions to taunting a fox.” He laughs to himself. “My mother would lovingly scold me each time she caught me doing it, but I just couldn’t stop myself. I thought I’d include it as a reminder of something I used to find joy in as a child.”

Hermione imagines Draco as a boy, chasing foxes in the acres of land his family owns. The thought is enough to compel her to sink even further against him.

Then, he points to the planets. “Then Venus right here, over my heart. Self-explanatory, I think. And Saturn here.” He points to the planet drawn across the center of his ribs. “I’ve always been fascinated by the god Saturn. He ruled and thrived in a Golden Age, and that’s all I want, really. To reside in my own Golden Age.” Draco sighs and cranes his neck to look down at Hermione. She meets his gaze and smiles. “Bored yet?” he asks.

“Not at all,” Hermione responds.

He smiles and points to the right side of his ribs, inches from where Hermione rests against him. “Alright, don’t laugh. This one Adrian suggested I get. And I got it while quite drunk. He thought it’d be a laugh to get a tacky quote.”

Hermione lifts herself off of Draco and reads the phrase tattooed on his side: per aspera ad astra.

“Through struggles to the stars,” she translates, demonstrating her mastery of the language.

Draco scoffs yet smiles. Hermione can see the memory play in his mind. “He is such a prick.”

“I like it,” Hermione attests, falling back onto his arm.

He shrugs. “It’s not horrible. I just can’t believe he persuaded me to get it. I feel like a fucking middle-aged woman with this on my ribs.”

They both laugh before he can finish his sentence. Hermione can feel his body jerk up and down with each breath between his wonderful laughs. Her head bobbles as well, and she lifts her hand to her mouth to trap the chuckle before it escalates too far.

She can practically see it herself—Adrian hyping up Draco in the tattoo shop to get the quote with his vivacious energy and compelling tone of voice.

It leads her to adore them even more.

Draco continues, lifting his left arm and crossing it over his body. “The butterflies fly up my arm because they represent freedom, liberation, autonomy. Things I’d really like for myself one day. I’ve often felt confined by a lot of external things—people, place, programs.” He snickers teasingly. “But these remind me that transcendence is possible. That emancipation from those things is not too far-fetched because it’s right here.”

She loves the explanation—it’s just so painful that a tracker rests just below those butterflies.

“And then the scales are a reminder that this skin is malleable. That I can shed it if I want to and be more than what everyone else assumes I am. That permanence only stays permanent if I force it to be.”

Admiration doesn’t even come close to how Hermione perceives Draco in this moment. She’s in complete awe of him. His careful and meaningful choices, his transparency, his growth—they all amalgamate into a haze around her that she cooperatively breathes in. And it is velvet against her tastebuds, soothing her glands like a cup of hot tea.

And then he flips his arm over so that the Dark Mark is visible. And she can make out scars that run horizontally on his arm. They’re small but nonetheless present, representative of his unquestionable struggle. Self-inflicted, unquestionably.

“One day, I’ll cover this up,” he says. “Or I’ll paint around it so that it’s barely visible. For now, I leave it evident as a reminder.”

He doesn’t explain further, and Hermione is content with that.

“And finally—”

Draco inches forward and turns to the left so that Hermione has a clear view of the Ironbelly on his back. Staring at it again up close, she solidifies just how colossal it really is. The details are exquisite—not one part of the dragon is spared from the magnificent artistry and technique. It whirls across his back like a coil, its spikes tall and large and its outstretched wings representative of its imminent flight into battle.

“How long did it take?” she asks.

“Several hours,” Draco answers. “But it was worth it.”

Tentatively, Hermione lifts her hand and places her fingertips on his skin. She traces the length of the dragon’s body all across his back, admiring the craftsmanship of the artist and the tenacity of Draco himself.

“It’s amazing,” she comments.

Draco nods and turns his head over his right shoulder. “I know they’re stereotypically evil—bearers of chaos and anger. But I think they can be misunderstood sometimes. Not all of them are threats to what is prototypically good. Sometimes, I think they’re actually assigned to protect those things. I want to think that I’d do that for any of them and maybe someday for myself. And then have someone who’d protect me all the same.” His eyes lift to meet hers. “It’s certainly a defining part of who I am.”

“It is,” she agrees, dropping her hand.

At the termination of her touch, Draco turns back around and rescinds into his previous position. He turns his neck to gaze at Hermione, and then his hand reaches for hers again.

“Do you feel any better?” she whispers.

Draco nods. “Yes.”

She clears her throat. “I know it’s difficult for you to hear this, but I am here for you. I mean… I’m literally here. Sitting on your bed. Willing to listen and help. I don’t want you to keep shutting me out. This conversation was just the beginning.” She takes his hand rests it upon her lap. “How can we keep this flame between us alive? How can I keep you from running away?”

Draco nips at his lower lip. “It’s… complicated—”

“What is complicated about it?” she asks, furrowing her eyebrows.

“Granger—”

“Come on, Malfoy. What’s stopping you from wanting more of what we just did?”

He heaves a sigh, followed by an answer. “I don’t want to drag you down with me—”

“You won’t drag me down,” Hermione insists, squeezing his hand a little tighter. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

“I do,” he asserts.

“No, you don’t—”

“I _do_ ,” he repeats with more zeal. “Try to see it through my eyes, Granger. I know what it’s like to have someone depend on you for everything. To have someone constantly seek your validation and attention. I was that for my mother from the moment I saw her that day in the drawing room to the moment we were separated after her trial. I wouldn’t wish that burden on my worst enemy. Especially not on you.” He sighs. “I already feel myself gravitating towards you. And I can’t… I can’t put you through the emotional labor it demands. I won’t. Not when I’ve done enough to you already.”

“But you’re not forcing it. I’m offering you my help. There's a difference. Malfoy, I’m _genuinely_ offering you my help. I hear what you’re saying. I do. But you’re not going to drag me down. I’m going to pull you up.”

He shakes his head as if it’s something he’s heard too many times before. “It’s not that easy or poetic, Granger.”

She sighs. “I suppose not. But you can’t deny that I’m sitting here, listening to your words, and wanting only what’s best for you and for everyone else. You can’t deny what happens when we’re together like this. And I’m not claiming to be your solution. I get it—you can’t depend on me. I know that. But you _can_ ask for help. You _can_ lean on my shoulder. You _can_ talk to me. And even though I won’t solve all of your problems, I can help alleviate some of your pain.”

Draco exhales slowly. “You… you make it so difficult.”

“To do what?”

“To ignore everything that’s inside of me.”

“Good,” she responds. “I could tell from the first day I saw you in Kingsley’s office. You’re used to doing that—shutting down and ignoring everything. But you’ll never feel better until you start talking, processing, accepting all the sincere help that comes your way.”

Draco shifts himself closer to Hermione, his eyes attached to the way her hand fits in his. “You’re the first person who’s offered it. This… isn’t easy for me.”

“You’ve done amazing,” she insists, lifting her right hand to cup his cheek. “You should be proud of yourself, Malfoy.”

The sigh that passes through his lips sounds as though he’s been dying to hear those words for the longest time.

“You keep saying these things to me that I don’t deserve,” he mutters. “You keep forgiving me. You keep reminding me of the bit of good in the world. And I can’t stop myself from drifting towards you.”

Hermione’s breath catches in her throat as her mouth trembles with anticipation, desire, and a need for salvation she can only attain when they’re pressed against his.

“I think you’re going to be the one to bring about my Golden Age, Granger.”

Her lips follow in the direction that her heart shoots—forward.

Hermione kisses him.

For a moment, she thinks he might not respond positively. That she’s made a fatal mistake by deepening their connection with this kiss. But she couldn’t go another second without displaying the fullest extent of her adoration for him and the way he’s grown.

The fear of her move is decimated when Draco presses his lips tighter against hers. He inhales through his nose as he strengthens their union, using his hand to dip Hermione’s head to the side so that he can dive further into her.

She thanks the gods that he’s receptive to the kiss, because next to her words, it’s the second-best way she can communicate her feelings for him at this point. There’s only so many words in the English language that she can say to him. But her lips convey an eternal story, never tired or beat. They collide and float against his in a rhythm that coincides with her heart, articulating everything she can’t put into words. It transcends semantics, surpasses all vocabulary. It’s just her beating heart unfolding for him.

With care and ease, Draco drops himself to his forearm and tugs Hermione down with him. They plunge onto their sides and cherish one another with kisses sweeter than toffee, rolls of the tongue upon one another that resemble licorice. Hermione’s hand frames the contour of his cheek, and her thumb glides over his cheekbone with delicate precision. She’s careful to treat him gently, just as he deserves.

While softly sucking on her lower lip, Draco’s hand drops to her thigh, and he tugs her taut against his body. Their legs mingle and tangle between one another in an attempt to close the distance between them. His chest is warm to the touch, flames settling upon her own body as his hand follows the length of her leg up to her waist where it slides underneath her shirt.

With his hand on her skin, Hermione feels a ripple soar across the surface of her figure, and she emits a small whimper against his open mouth.

He digs his fingers into her waist, gracefully rocking her back and forth against him. And his head rises above hers as he dips his tongue past her lips. Hermione tugs his head close, heightening the kiss, intensifying the movement between their tongues, and strengthening the bond.

For a moment, Draco pulls away, and in the pocket of space between them, they share the same air. He presses his forehead against hers and swallows.

“You… are more valuable to me in this moment than the most prized cut of gold in the universe,” he whispers onto her lips, followed by another chaste kiss.

Hermione shuts her eyes as he pulls away again, licking her lips and savoring the way they grow swollen from his affection. And when Draco begins to turn onto his back, she adjusts her position as well, nestling her head upon his chest and wrapping her right arm across his body. She's careful against his shoulder, but he doesn't seem to mind the pain, if there is any. Draco snakes his arm underneath her shoulders and dips his face into her wavy hair. With a pleasant sigh, Hermione lifts and hooks her right leg over his waist and legs, effectively eliminating any remaining space between them.

Her fingers trace the constellations on his chest and twirl around Saturn’s several rings. She soars around the galaxy with her fingers and in her mind.

“What happens tomorrow?” Draco asks, his voice low and quiet as if he doesn’t really want to know the answer.

Hermione takes a deep breath and sinks further against him. “I keep my promise. I figure out exactly what it is Aberfield is doing. And then hopefully bring you all some peace.”

“Peace,” he repeats. “I don’t know if we’ll ever attain true peace.”

“I’ll get you as close as I can.”

Draco’s left hand reaches across his body to settle upon her shoulder. “If you want to get me as close as you can to peace, all you have to do is stay here.”

“Okay,” she whispers.

“Stay, Granger.”

“I will.”

And the invisible string that once connected them drops peacefully. It does not sever, it does not snap, it does not lose its power. It simply relinquishes the firm tug it once held from when they were apart. Now, it sees no reason to continue to be pulled, jerked, and tugged relentlessly.

Hermione falls asleep to the beating of his heart against her ear, and Draco, eyes closed and breath steady, greets the warm breeze of a dormant night moments later, brought on by the scent of her hair, the feeling of her skin, and the pulse of her heart fastened and secure against him.

He holds her in his sleep and, for the first time in what feels like an endless string of tumultuous and arid months, he actually dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> character development has me screaming !!!!


End file.
